There are many ways to spend an afternoon, and plenty of them are unpleasant, but few are worse than spending time with priests. I find the priests of the dead gods unsettling—their porcelain masks hide their faces and they are trained to keep their voices free of any emotion or tone. When the gods lived, their priests were immortal; now we make our priests interchangeable so we can pretend they never die.
There were four priests in Maniyadoc. Although our celestial graveyard has a dead god for every occasion people are choosy about which they pay tribute to. Different blessed prefer different gods and some are only worshipped in specific areas of the Tired Lands, for the sake of tradition. The priests of Adallada, queen of the dead gods, and her consort Dallad, for instance, are only ever found at the high king’s palace in Ceadoc and at Festival, because power is jealous of power. Even when your gods are dead it is best to keep the strongest ones close.
Maniyadoc’s priests were the most common ones. I had already had two interminable meetings with the priest of Lessiah, the goddess of night, and the priest of Mayel, the goddess of fertility. The conversations had gone the way conversations with priests always go.
“I have not seen you at the signing sermons in my buried chapel. Do you not worry about the hedgings? What if you fell upon hard times, and Fitchgrass—or worse, Dark Ungar—made you an offer? You are far too young to recognise that a hedging’s offer can take many forms; only the dead gods can provide that wisdom. Have you signed the book of the god today?” The books of the gods and fear of the hedgings were the reasons the priesthoods still existed. Though all our gods, apart from Xus, had perished in the wars of balance and now we lived a lonely life without their guidance. The priests promised that one day the sourlands would be healed and then the gods would return. However, remnants of the gods’ power remained, and these remnants, lost and broken, had become the hedgings which haunted field, wood and pool, hungering for the lives of men and women. Until the rebirth we were told only the priesthood’s books and knowledge could keep people safe from the hunger of the hedgings. They said that when the gods returned from their graves in the sea those who had remained loyal would be rewarded. So the pious attended worship every morning in the buried chapels and signed their names in the books of the gods.
But that was my afternoon. Two earnest lectures on why I should attend worship and sign my name in the book. The priest of fertility, who I saw second, was heavily pregnant. Unlike the other priests she was not expected to be celibate; quite the opposite. It was expected that she be almost constantly pregnant and even hidden behind a mask and under thick red robes she could not hide how tired she was. Her room smelled of spoilt milk and was filled with nothing but the book of names and toys for the gaggle of children running around. An unseen child screamed in the back of her small room and two more hung on grimly to her robes. I had spent the previous two hours resisting the entreaties of the priest of Lessiah, out of sheer pig-headedness, but when the priest of Mayel asked me to sign her book I did just so she could get rid of me. She seemed happy for me to go, which suited us both.
Outside her room my master waited.
“So?” Her voice out of that alien black and white face. It was always strange when she was Death’s Jester. It obliterated her—everything about her changed. Her mannerisms were more thought out and exaggerated, and it became as if every step she took and every tilt of her head was part of an elaborate dance. She carried herself more lightly and even her voice was different—more mocking. I had to consciously remind myself it was all part of an act.
“She is as pious as the other, jester, you were right in that.”
“Next we shall see Neander, the priest of Heissal. I expect he will be less pious.”
“He is Rufra’s father?”
“Aye, so rumour has it. You should be alert around him. You need to concentrate.”
“I have been concentrating.”
I had not.
“You have not,” she snapped as we walked down the corridor past bowing slaves. “You have been mooning around like a stunned pig.”
I had.
I could not concentrate for thoughts of Drusl. One moment elation, the next I was despondent. I had thought of love before but could not imagine anyone looking at me that way—a small-for-his-age skinny boy with a club foot. Coupled with the fact we rarely stayed anywhere for more than a couple of days, and when we did stay longer my cover was usually among the thankful in the lowest places, doing the most unpleasant jobs. I became the people no one wanted to look at, or a jester, and rarely had to interact with people. So this feeling was entirely new to me. Is this what it was to love?
No wonder my master has chosen to avoid it.
“Gusteffa spoke to me last night,” I said, in an attempt to deflect the conversation. It was worth mentioning because a jester is meant to be silent unless acting on the orders of their blessed. “He asked if you would replace him.”
“Understandable, I suppose. Doran ap Mennix has had the jester for ten years,” she said. “Gusteffa is probably used to being spoiled.”
It was true. Sometimes I wondered why my master was so committed to the art of murder when she could make twice the living as a jester.
“But still, it was unusual, and you said to look out for—”
“Ten years is a long time for someone to stay in cover, Blessed ap Gwynr,” she said. “Gusteffa is not the assassin.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I do.” She did not add anything, and when the silence had become strong between us I spoke again.
“Rufra wants to be my friend.”
“Oh?” she said.
“I’ve put him off,” and I felt bad about it. “He said Tomas hated him. There’s no way I could become part of his group if I was friends with Rufra. Not that Tomas shows any sign of wanting me in his group.”
“Poor, lonely, you.”
“You know—” I changed to the Whisper-That-Flies-to-the-Ear “—the more I think of this, Master, the more I think our task is hopeless. How can we prove someone has hired an assassin? It is not like they would be foolish enough to keep a note of it or put it in a diary.”
“People are often foolish.” She flipped herself up into a handstand and walked on her hands along the corridor, “they do foolish things.”
“And if they are not foolish? What then.”
She flipped herself back onto her feet and leaned in close to me as we walked. “Then, my pupil, we find the most likely suspect and we make it appear as if they have been foolish.”
“You mean set them up? But they’ll be killed.”
“And that worries you why? Have you forgotten what we are?”