Whitemantle

As they walked on through the hot, close afternoon Gwydion remarked on the uneven and filthy state of the streets. ‘But you will see little of this unpleasantness about the mansions of the wealthy, for those whose task it should be to care for the City even-handedly have long since given themselves over to the far more agreeable business of supping at lordly tables, or else wrangling with one another for the privilege of doing so.’

‘I can see how the lords and those who serve them might live well here. But what of the rest? How do the poor live?’

‘As the poor always live. But here there is also a middle ground – every trade still has its guild, though their power is not as it was, and whenever things become too oppressive a great mob takes to the streets and there is a riot. Burning and looting happens more often than you might imagine. Why do you think there are no thatched roofs allowed here in Trinovant?’

Will was almost sorry he had asked. As they got deeper into the commercial heart of the City, the streets began to teem. He saw great flocks of sheep in the road, and stockmen herding cattle to the pens that stood near the shambles. He followed on in silence, watching as Gwydion stopped here and there at corners to search out strange marks that had been left chalked on posts or scratched into beams. They seemed to guide him like secret clues. Often he tasted the air for spell-working tell-tales and magical resonances. And when he found them he quietly danced, undoing the dismal tokens of bone and blood that his rival had hidden in so many nooks about the City.

‘They do much mischief,’ Gwydion said, holding up his latest find. It was a severed finger and a cockerel’s claw that had been bound together with a silken thread and put high up on a ledge. ‘This and others like it overlook many of the City’s crossroads. They power the spells that Maskull has trussed about the commerce of the streets. Six or seven of them will have to be rooted out if the stock market here is to flourish again!’

A pack of Fellows watched from a little way off. They slunk away from the wizard’s eye as he turned to face them, then dissolved among the crowds. Will was amazed to see so many Sightless Ones walking openly and almost at liberty within the City. They were always in groups of at least three, sometimes led by a sighted guide. Fellows from different chapter houses dressed in different coloured robes, and there seemed to be a certain coolness, or perhaps even rivalry, between them. Will was reminded that although called ‘Sightless Ones’, they possessed a strange, groping sense that served in place of vision, and the more he walked the City streets, the more he began to fear there were those among them who had already identified him as the defiler of Verlamion and were passing the news to a higher authority.

‘Come!’ Gwydion whispered sharply. ‘You do right to beware the Sightless Ones, Willand, for they do not forgive and they are surely hunting for you. But do not gawp so plainly at them. See how they tilt their heads at you! Mind you do not give your thoughts away so easily.’

Will did as he was told and guarded his face as the wizard took them past narrow alleys that stank ripely in the heat. There were many beggars and peddlers and barrow-men here. Gwydion said they would do well to get quickly across the Wartling, the main Slaver road that cut diagonally through the City. They passed down thronging lanes, and in time came to another market. There was much that Will had never seen before, and more for which he saw no good reason. The street sellers offered too many wares that were unneedful – dubious foods, badly made flutes, sweetmeats, vain hats, posies of wilting flowers, false charms, and little songbirds confined in tiny cages, too distraught to do anything but hop back and forth and chirrup warnings to one another.

Nor could Will’s own talent find silent rest. Threat and malign intent bubbled among the press of bodies, and there was such a cacophony of human weakness in the air that it pained him to feel it all. He was relieved when the wizard steered him away from the Cheap and down a lane towards the wide river where the brown-grey waters sparkled in the sun. Ships from beyond the seas rode at anchor, loading and unloading their cargoes at Queenhythe. There were the smells of faraway places here – salt and spice and spiritous liquors. Oddly, it made him feel homesick, though he could not say why.

‘In the days of the First Men a great burgh stood here,’ Gwydion told them. ‘It was known as Ludnaborg by the seafarers, and was the greatest and most famous of all the burghs in the Land of Albion. Then came the Desolation, when giants and dragons ruled here, but afterwards came Brea, out of a far land. A descendant of Abaris and son of Frey, he built the Wooden City after the style of Trihan, which was the place of his birth. And he called it “New Trihan” or in his own speech “Trinh Niobhan” and that was eleven hundred years before the founding of the Fellowship of the Sightless Ones.’

Will looked up at the unfinished buildings, and at the men who climbed over them like squirrels. New warehouses were being thrust ever higher, packed tight against one another. ‘When will this city be finished?’ he asked.

‘Finished?’ Gwydion laughed. ‘Never! Here they do not think about reaching perfection, only of staggering greedily onward, for in this city bigger is always held to be better, despite what the redes have to say on the topic.’

Will could not but marvel at the monstrous bridge of twenty-one piers that had been flung across the Iesis. A traffic of small boats and wherries shot under it where the water flowed rapidly in shadow, while above many houses stood crowded upon the span. There were fortified gates at each end that could be closed to prevent entry into the City, though Gwydion spoke of the many times that the bridge gates had been forced, such as when Jack the Carter had led fifty thousand Kennetmen in revolt against the king and then given the order to kill all the lawyers.

‘Not all revolts are to be discouraged, then,’ Willow said wryly.

And Gwydion laughed. ‘Sometimes a good bonfire serves to cleanse the body politic.’

Beyond the bridge to the east a great castle brooded on the northern shore, revealed now by the sweep of the river. Soaring lime-white walls stood out bold and square above the waters, and Will knew that this must be the White Tower, the main fortress which the Conqueror had built to control the City almost four hundred years before.

A strange feeling began to course through Will’s body, making him feel faint.

‘Will you take us to Tower Hill?’ he asked, pointing to the great keep.

Gwydion’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Do you think I should?’

‘I…’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘We cannot go there, for the White Tower remains under siege both by land and by water.’

‘Under siege?’ Willow said, surprised. ‘Who’s attacking it?’

‘Men wearing the Earl of Sarum’s livery. A body of them stayed while the rest of his host marched north to Delamprey. Friend Sarum has begun calling himself the military governor of Trinovant if you please!’

Willow sniffed. ‘But I thought Duke Richard’s allies were welcomed into the City by the Lord Mayor and his Aldermen.’

‘They were. And the White Tower was the bolt-hole into which all the king’s supporters jumped for safety. They’re still there and dare not come out.’

‘They’ll have to when the king himself orders it.’ Willow resettled Bethe on her hip. ‘Don’t they know that he’s coming here?’

Gwydion offered a vinegary smile. ‘I expect they do. My own best guess is that Richard and Hal will arrive in three days’ time, which is why I must get on with my work—’

‘What does the mystical head of Bran say about the matter?’ Will asked suddenly.

The question came out of the blue. Gwydion halted and squinted at Will. ‘Again?’

‘I asked you about Bran, Master Merlyn!’ Will’s voice was deep and otherworldly. ‘Or does his head lie elsewhere these days?’

Gwydion continued to look hard at Will as he made his reply. ‘Bran’s head remains buried within the grounds of the White Tower. It is still attended by thirteen ravens, just as I promised you, Sire.’

Will, pale-faced and uncertain now, put a hand to his head. ‘I…I don’t feel…’

And it seemed suddenly that he was falling.

When he opened his eyes again he found it hard to breathe. He struggled, but quickly realized that Willow was holding a cloth to his nose, which was bleeding.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You banged your head.’

‘I must have…fainted.’

‘What do you remember about Bran?’ Gwydion asked as Will stood up.

‘Who?’

‘Bran. He was the twenty-eighth king of the blood of Brea, a great king who with his brother, Beli, took armies across the Narrow Seas and led them against the rising power of sorcery in the East. The brothers sacked the great city of Tibor, and later Bran took his men under the earth. That was the last time any mortal king ever attempted to journey into the Realm Below. It is a place from which few have ever returned. The feat was achieved only once – by a far greater adventurer than King Bran. That man’s name was—’

‘Arthur…’

‘Indeed. Arthur.’

Will felt as if he had been reminded of things that he had once known but had later forgotten. ‘Bran’s name signifies “raven”. He was…the son of Dunval the Lawmaker…who was himself the first king to wear a golden diadem as the sign of kingship in these Isles. Dunval’s two sons were Beli and Bran, and his daughter was Branwen the Fair. And Bran married the daughter of Isinglas – but I can’t recall her name.’

‘Esmer.’

‘Yes! Esmer. Esmer…’ Will looked up. ‘Gwydion, did I know these folk in my former life?’

Gwydion laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You did not. They lived in a time that lay between your first and second comings. Perhaps you know their names for another reason – for they are part of the histories that I taught to young Wart.’

Will closed his eyes, and put his face in his hands for a moment. When he took them away again he began to sing.

‘Then made Great Dunval his sacred laws,

Which some men say

Were unto him revealed in vision—’

He paused. ‘But why should I bring King Bran to mind now, Master Gwydion? Of all the histories you must have taught me in a previous life, why this one?’

‘I cannot say for certain. Do you not remember what happened at Bran’s last battle at Gerlshome when he was wounded by a poisoned spear? That wound caused him such great agony that his head was cut off by his brother as an act of mercy. Bran’s bodyguards bore his head to the White Tower, and all the way it spoke to them, telling where it must be buried—’

‘It was to protect the Realm against invasion,’ Will continued. ‘The head was set to face the Narrow Seas. But after many years Great Arthur dug it up again, so that he would henceforth be the sole guardian of the Realm.’

Gwydion nodded. ‘I found the head shut up in a golden box after Arthur’s death. It was I who re-interred it at a place then called the White Mound. Oh, the head was quite clear about where it wanted to rest, and enough of its protective power lingered on for the Conqueror to fear it considerably five hundred years after. He built the White Tower over the very place where I buried it.’

Will looked suddenly to the wizard. ‘Gwydion, the White Tower lies upon a lign! I’ll wager my life on it. Bran’s head became a part of the lorc! That’s how it spoke to Arthur during his second coming.’

‘Well, we cannot go to the White Tower now. Nor can we go across the river. Over the bridge lies the Cittie Bastion of Warke. There the Grand High Warden, Isnar, keeps his winter hearth. It is a main counting house wherein the Elders of the Fellowship keep a great stock of gold. They have many rituals concerning the accounting of it. Come along, Will – a thousand hollow eyes stare out from that place. It is best not to spend too long looking back at it, for its golden glimmer ensnares many.’

But Will did not take his gaze away from those blank walls across the water until the morbid feelings that emanated from the place made him turn about – and then he saw the Spire again. Its gigantic presence shocked him now. It seemed to have followed him and grown huger in the hazy sky. Its dark surface was a mass of strange ornament, pillared and fluted, with arches and niches and buttresses and every kind of conceit carved in stone.

The whole weight of it seemed to be falling upon him, and as he looked away he thought that the character of the City had changed. Hereabouts the streets were narrower, and the aspect of the ground felt dull and blighted. They were now so close to the Spire that he could see dark motes in the air, circling its top. Ill-begotten things were fighting and disputing, or so it seemed, about some high platform.

‘Birds?’ Willow said, following his gaze.

‘They are not birds,’ Gwydion muttered darkly. ‘Do you not realize the size of them? They are bone demons, come to feed on human remains.’

‘Bone demons?’

‘Ugh!’ Will grimaced. ‘You mean, there are dead bodies left up there? Exposed?’

‘They call it the Bier of Eternity. When a High Warden dies, his remains are not hidden within a chapter house like those of lesser Fellows.’

‘That’s horrible.’

Gwydion’s grunt was dismissive. ‘The Sightless Ones make singular claims about what happens when a man ends his days, dangerous claims that play upon the weakness of fear, and one form in particular: the fear of death. They intensify it greatly, for they know that in the end they can make a profit from it. What do you think they sell to make such stores of gold? Have I not already told you what is meant by the Great Lie?’

Will did not care to hear more. He fell back and walked a pace or two behind his wife, watching to see that nothing unpleasant happened. She would not let go of Bethe for a moment, nor did she pay any heed to the ragged men who reached out to tug at the hems of her skirts. Yet Will did pause, touched, despite his fears, to see a press of beggars crowding expectantly on the other side of a barred portal. It was the begging hole of a hospice or lazar house, one of the morbid lodgings that Gwydion had once mentioned. The Sightless Ones maintained such houses to draw in the sick, though those who were admitted were expected to feed themselves by imploring passers-by to give them alms. Deformed men whose auras burned dim thrust hands and stumps up through the bars, crying pitifully. Skull-like faces pressed together into the light and the stench of unwashed bodies gusted from the hole. The spectacle was horrifying and made Will take a step back. But he could not look away. The beggar who most caught Will’s eye was heavily mantled in grey. A deep hood hid his face, but it did little to disguise him.

Suddenly, Will’s belly clenched – his feelings flashed dangerously, and he thought of Chlu – but it was not Chlu. Chlu could not be here, surely, for the queen and Maskull had gone into the north and the Dark Child must have gone with them…

Will continued to stare at the beggar, unsure why he had been so affected by him. What had marked him out, packed as he was among so many other beggars? He was certainly large. Will looked at his outstretched forearm. It was solidly muscular, though his hand was swathed in filthy rags. He seemed troubled, and, for all his strength, less adept at beggary than the rest, though hardly a man on the point of losing his will to live.

Will understood from the way the beggar inclined his head as he thrust his bowl through the iron bars that he was blind. Then with a shock he realized that the rags the man wore were the tattered remains of a Fellow’s garb. He was no beggar, but their warder…

Will recoiled, but then he steadied himself and some strange impulse of charity came over him, for this man, though he was a Fellow, seemed somehow more needy even than the beggars who surrounded him.

When Will brought out an apple from his pack it was quickly seized and josded away before the Fellow could take it, so he brought out another and deliberately guided the man’s bandaged hand to it. This time it was taken and Will turned away, driven back in part by the foul stink of the place.

‘Why did you do that?’ Gwydion asked as Will caught them up.

‘Even their warden was hungry. He was begging too. Don’t they feed their own inside the Fellowship in Trinovant?’

Gwydion brushed the matter off. ‘They are drinkers of blood. Why did you give him an apple?’

‘Because he wanted it. And because giving is getting.’ Will’s solemnity melted away and he smiled. ‘That’s something I once learned from feeding ducks.’

When they came to the end of the street the way opened out into a space dominated by the massive structure of the Spire. The foundation storeys and the monument that stood opposite its entrance were wholly faced in black stone. The Spire itself was railed off and the area around it paved in a complicated pattern of black and white stone across which Fellows in yellow garb patrolled. Surrounding the Spire beyond the spiked rail was what looked at first like a market, but Will soon saw there were no buyers at these craftsmen’s stalls. Each booth had its own canvas awning. Each was occupied by a different kind of worker. There were butchers and bakers, metalsmiths and wood-turners, coiners and token-makers, bodgers and cobblers, tinkers and money-changers. Smoke was rising from many of the stalls, and there was the smell of charcoal and the ringing of hammers upon anvils.

‘See how the Fellowship draws in so many of the useful trades and binds folk unto itself,’ Gwydion said. ‘But these craftsmen are not serving the commerce of the City. None of what they make is used beyond the Fellowship.’

‘Then, is the rest of it set in store?’ Will asked, seeing the quantity of goods that was made here.

The wizard grunted. ‘That question shows that you little appreciate the scale of wealth that the Fellowship commands. What you see here is power, for through it the Grand High Warden exercises a torturesome control.’

Will frowned. ‘Torturesome, you say?’

‘Surely. For on the other side of the Spire is a yard such as this, except that there the artisans’ business is the breaking apart of whatever is made on this side.’

Will balked. ‘What on earth is the point of that?’

‘By this means Grand High Warden Isnar regulates every key trade in the City. He can quickly destroy any cooper or candle-maker or any other producer of wares who dares to displease him. He has succeeded in strangling this city and many another, for what could be more torturesome to a man than the prospect of having his livelihood taken away?’

‘But what about the famous Trinovant Guilds?’ Willow asked. ‘The mercers and drapers? The grocers and vintners and ironmongers and all the rest? Don’t they fight back?’

‘They cannot. Their power is now all but broken by the Fellowship.’

As they drew closer to the Spire grounds, Will saw rows of money-changers’ booths and beyond them the block-like monument. Such an edifice stood outside every Chapter House, no matter how small, but no other in the land was like this. It was as big as a house, and its top was decked with statues of monstrous animals and its sides cut with mottoes in the Tiborean tongue. The words were mostly obscured by spills of wax from ten thousand red candles that forever burned among the bronze or basalt legs of the beasts, but the letters were carved deeply and Will made out the legend.