‘You and the others have been working on this for two months already – shouldn’t things be—’
‘“Two months”,’ Midreida repeated in a tone laden with sarcasm. ‘Two whole months? Has it really been that long? Hard to imagine how we couldn’t have finished rebuilding the single largest structure in the entire fucking country in that time, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, fine,’ I said, irritated by the woman’s apparently endless derision, not to mention the way she kept snorting as though I had no comprehension of how castles were constructed – I didn’t, of course, but she didn’t have to remind me of it with every twitch of her lips. ‘What if we hired more people to speed things up?’
‘What people?’ she asked. ‘With what money? This isn’t digging trenches we’re talking about, First Cantor. This is skilled work.’ The stonemason spread her arms wide, gesturing at the passageway as if she herself had carved it from solid rock. ‘A castle like this takes a generation to build! It takes specialists in a dozen different crafts; can you not understand that?’
Before I could answer, she grabbed me by the arm and hauled me through the servants’ entrance into the throne room. ‘There,’ she said, pointing at one of the heavy marble tiles on the floor. ‘You see that? And there? And again there?’
I peered down at the marble. ‘Er . . . the ones in the middle of the room are a little lower than the others. So what?’
‘So what? That marble rests on a stone floor above the lower levels of the keep: it’s not supposed to sag. Tell me, have you ever seen rock bend?’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘That bloody God of yours somehow weakened the foundations holding up the entire bloody castle.’ She looked away as if addressing someone else – someone considerably less ignorant than me. ‘“How soon can the castle be finished?” he asks me.’ She turned back to me. ‘First Cantor, right now it’s all I can do to make sure what’s left of the fucking thing doesn’t fall into the dungeons the next time more than twenty people come begging favours from the crown!’
Saint Eloria-who . . . whatever she does. It never occurred to me that the keep could actually be in even worse state than it looked from outside. What had once been the proudest castle in the country was now little more than a husk; it shared so much in common with the broken, rotting nation itself that I wondered if the damned Blacksmith hadn’t done it this way on purpose.
‘Oh, now he gets it,’ the stonemason said. ‘Now the true state of things is seeping into that mighty magistrate’s brain of his. Now he understands why asking me how soon I can be done is the most idiotic question of the age.’
I didn’t feel like I was going to develop a good working relationship with Midreida, so I waited until she stopped railing at me, then a little longer before she finally let her arms drop by her sides. Then I asked, ‘So, next week is no good then?’
*
With only a few hours left before daylight, I should have made my way straight to my bed, but instead found myself continuing my lonely meanderings in the castle’s halls (although this time I was paying more attention to where I stepped). I kept hoping I might run into Ethalia; I still hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with her since my return. The stupid thing was, I knew where she would be: inside what was left of the broken-down old chapel she’d taken as her bedroom in the same way I’d moved into the Greatcoats’ wardroom. We’d both made homes out of our respective professions, and somehow that had created another barrier between us. Although I must have walked past the chapel a dozen times that night, my uncertainty over the state of our relationship kept me from just knocking at her door. Instead, like an unwanted puppy, I returned to the wardroom, tail between my legs, and hoped that she might come to seek me out. So there I sat, on my dusty cot, waiting like a lovelorn fool for a knock at the door.
Unfortunately, when the knock finally came, it wasn’t Ethalia.
‘Rhyleis,’ I said wearily, ‘I don’t know how you got to Aramor so quickly, but I swear if this is another—’
She reached up and briefly placed a finger against my lips. ‘Shush, my darling, no time for your usual flirtations tonight. I’m here on important business.’
‘Which is?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘I bring orders from Nehra.’
I sighed. ‘You know what I wonder sometimes?’
Her mouth lifted in a salacious smile. ‘I know exactly what you wonder about.’
I let that pass. ‘Why is it that the Greatcoats are literally the only people in the country who are never required to bend a knee to anyone and yet everyone and their cat think they can order me around?’
Rhyleis pinched my cheek. ‘You have a very orderable face, Falcio.’ Before I could protest, she blithely relayed Nehra’s command. ‘When you get to Avares, it’s very important that you bring back any warsongs that you can. The Avareans don’t write them down, but their warriors often sing them during training. Have Kest take note, since he’s got the best ear for music of the three of you, and make sure you—’
‘Hold on,’ I said, barely keeping up, ‘how does Nehra even know we’re going to Avares?’
Rhyleis arched an eyebrow at me. Not many people can do that, and few so superciliously. ‘Falcio, please, we’re the Bardatti.’
‘You say that like I should give a damn, which I don’t. Anyway, if you know where I’m going you probably have some idea of why I’m going, and you’ll then understand why I don’t have time to bring back any tunes, poems, ditties or other nonsense.’
Something changed in Rhyleis’ expression and it took me a moment to recognise it for what it was. I guess I’d never seen her angry before. ‘Be very careful how you speak of songcraft, Falcio val Mond. The spread of a single carefully worded scorn poem has taken the crown from a Prince’s head. Generals have watched their infantry run screaming from the field as the effects of a true warsong broke their spirit. We are the Bardatti, and we are not to be trifled with.’
There was a fire in her eyes and it was an impressive speech, but I have a low tolerance for excessively flowery threats when I’m tired.
‘No, of course not. The Bardatti are too busy trifling with everyone else.’
For some strange reason, Rhyleis took this as submission. ‘Now remember, it’s not important to get the words, but we need the melody and rhythm – as many Avarean warsongs as you can, every single one you hear while you’re away on your little holiday.’
Holiday. ‘Right. I’ll get on that straightaway. Warsongs. Rhythm. Melody. Tell Nehra it’s as good as done.’
Rhyleis smiled. ‘Excellent. Now that we’ve got business out of the way . . .’ She brought her fingers to the collar of her shirt and undid the top button, then nodded for me to do the same.
‘Rhyleis . . .’ I said.
‘Yes, Falcio?’
The thing about being a duellist is that you learn to sense when someone is testing you with a feint rather than preparing an actual lunge. ‘Get the hells out of my room.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Unanswered Whistle