Grand Conspiracy: Second Book of The Alliance of Light. Janny Wurts

I don’t see any Spinner of Darkness storming the kingdom by sorcery. His clan allies are left as convenient scapegoats, dragged in to vindicate the old hatreds.’

      ‘Strong words,’ the elder murmured in peppery provocation.

      ‘Men don’t burn in Avenor for opinions. Not yet, anyway.’ Arrived at the end of the near row of cots, the healer lapsed in his tirade. His scrutiny turned critical until he observed that the oldster knew how to raise and move a helpless man without causing careless injury. ‘Whoever trained you, you’re good with your hands.’ Then, the ultimate compliment, ‘Can I call you by name?’

      The request raised a mumble drowned out by the scraping scuffle of footsteps as the litterborne man was conveyed toward the tiny, partitioned room that had formerly served as the warehouse factor’s day office. Sudden light knifed the gloom as a woman in a farmwife’s loomed skirts threw open the door to admit them.

      Steam billowed out, spiked by a ghost taint of apricot brandy, and a drift of female chatter. ‘Bring the dearie in here. Aesha’s got balsam to sweeten his bath, and Ennlie’s cousin’s new babe needs a wee syrup for the croup. Could you mix her the dose? We’ll see to your work with the razor.’

      ‘Have I ever refused you, love?’ said the healer, absorbed as he maneuvered the burdened litter through the constraint of the doorjambs, careful not to scrape the chapped skin off his knuckles. He added in snatched explanation, ‘These are widows of the men lost on campaign back in Vastmark. They’re all volunteers, and we would be paralyzed without them.’

      ‘I can prepare cough syrup,’ the old man offered. His quick smile reassured the redheaded Ennlie; the healer was given his calm list of the herbs in proper proportion for the recipe. ‘If you haven’t any cailcallow, fresh wintergreen will do.’

      ‘Ath,’ said the healer, amazed. He braced the litter on a tabletop, planted his stance, then eased the heavyset occupant into a waiting tub brimmed with suds. ‘Wherever you came from, we could use six others just like you.’

      ‘Petition the crown to stop burning herb witches?’ the old man quipped.

      The healer’s solemnity gave way to the first belly laugh he had enjoyed in long weeks. ‘Now, that might see me arraigned for collaboration with evil.’

      ‘Surely not,’ the old man argued. ‘Avenor’s palace pages could scarcely fill your shoes as replacement.’

      ‘Well then, definitely don’t brag on your skills while you’re here. I’d rather be sure this court gets no leeway to decide my sharp tongue’s a crown nuisance.’ Smiling, the healer offered his satchel and the freely made gift of his trust. ‘Everything you’ll need for that remedy is inside. Just rummage away. Oh, and shout if you can’t read my labels.’

      The morning streamed past in camaraderie and hard work, with the harried master healer relying more and more on the old man’s competent assistance. If the fellow seemed given to peculiar silences, his lapses of woolgathering seemed not to affect the compassionate skill of his hands. Nor was his remark about arcane connections entirely the lighthearted artifice of humor. He had a gift, or else an empathic touch that wrought an uncanny string of small miracles. Those victims whose vitality had faltered through their prolonged and unnatural sleep seemed to stabilize under his influence. When yet again the royal healer felt a man’s fluttery pulse rebound and steady for no reason, he glanced up.

      The oldster was only washing the unconscious man’s hair, his hands wrist deep in dripping lather, and his expression vague as a daft poet’s. Except that no mind could decipher his reticent secrets, nor read into eyes that held the innocence of a spring sky.

      The healer stared over the rim of the washtub, a swift chill of gooseflesh marring the skin of the fingers still clasped to the guardsman’s limp wrist. His attentiveness this time demanded the courtesy of a straight answer as he said softly, ‘Who are you?’

      The old man in his whimsical coat of sewn rags turned his head. He smiled, disarming, then tipped his chin toward the closed door, a half beat ahead of a disturbance arisen outside of the warehouse. ‘You’re going to know very shortly.’ As the commotion resolved into the scouring rumble of cart wheels, and the clatter of a sumptuous company of outriders, his seamed features kindled into beguiling delight. ‘We have company? Your party of councilmen has arrived two and a half hours early.’

      ‘Dharkaron’s Black Spear!’ The crown’s master healer rammed to his feet in flustered annoyance. He pressed through the busy women in the factor’s office, cracked the door, and yelled to his youthful assistants, ‘Get busy lighting the sconces and candles! Now! Jump on it! His Grace’s high officers have no liking at all for musty dim corners and shadows that remind them of darkness.’

      Abandoned in the wake of last-minute preparations, the old man retrieved the dropped pitcher. He rinsed the soapy head under his fingers, and without visible hurry, toweled the comatose soldier’s streaming hair. Then he left his charge in the care of the women.

      ‘Don’t scream if he stirs,’ he admonished on parting, his amusement damped back to a madcap twinkle in the artless depths of his eyes.

      ‘Ye’re moonstruck,’ the grandmother among them replied, laughing, and shooed him back into the warehouse.

      There, he might as well have been invisible for all the notice anyone paid him. The frenzied scurry of preparations flowed right and left, banked candles and lanterns set burning at profligate expense. If the Prince of the Light went nowhere without ceremony, his high council officers emulated court style. The old man chose an unobtrusive stance against the sagged boards of old shelving. His ancient, patched coat flapped against his booted ankles as the large double doors that fronted the dockside were unlatched and dragged open.

      Two pages entered, their deep blue crown livery adorned with sunwheel sashes. Next followed a herald, his tabard roped with gold, the glittering white silk smirched with a dusting of snowflakes. While the chill swirled and flowed to the farthest-flung crannies, and candleflames streamed with the draft, he bawled out his formal announcement of the imminent presence of crown officers.

      Two magistrates stepped in as the echoes died away. They wore their formal robes of judgment and collars of gleaming links. With them came the Lord Crown Examiner, robed in ermine and white silk, and a second figure of impressive presence and seal-colored beard and hair. Diamond studs shot scintillant fire, warmed by a linked chain of dragons masterfully wrought in tooled gold. The inclement weather had not ruffled his fine clothes, which meant that somewhere outside, a stoic pack of servants had borne a closed litter or palanquin.

      The argumentative clutch of clerks trailing the first pair did not merit such nicety. They wore snow in their hat brims, and discommoded expressions of forbearance. Last came the lean and predatory form of the Alliance Lord Commander at Arms. That one strode in like a hungry hawk, his black-hilted weapons and alert carriage in sharp contrast to the disdainful court secretary who waddled, self-important as a citybred pigeon. Six sunwheel guardsmen escorted the retinue, their glittering trappings and ceremonial helms buffed to a dazzling polish. These ushered in their turn a trio of curiosities: a tall woman trailing a sequined train and a shoulder yoke of pheasant wings and peacock eyes. Next came a skinny, bald man robed in sable and purple velvet; then a wizened creature of indeterminate sex, with one gouged-out eye socket and a blackthorn walking stick capped with a crow skull and fringed with rattling bone beads. Four liveried footmen brought up the rear, loaded chin high with oddments and bizarre paraphernalia.

      The array was eclectic. From his unobtrusive vantage outside the hub of activity, the old man picked out several portable bronze braziers, clay vessels stamped with runes, and two amphorae of ruby glass. Less wholesome than these, stained with the aura of dark usage, was a goblet made from a cranial bone rimmed in tarnished silver. A trailing tangle of embroidery identified the filched mantle from a ransacked hostel of Ath’s Brotherhood. Two matched onyx candlesticks wafted a perfume of heavy incense, even through the rampaging wind that rushed in, rank with the salt rime razed off the harbor.

      Through a sifting swirl of snow,