Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [73]
The terror that was part of common life finally invaded the great houses. They bestirred themselves against the Bloody Hands, but it was too late for stout men in silk robes to reclaim their city. Since Lord Serripines’ natural allies within Sanctuary bowed to Dyareelan intimidation, he turned to a neglected apothecary.
“The Hands are madmen!” the Rankan lord raged. His eyes were red. He hadn’t slept well since his wife’s death.
Molin helped himself to a goblet of the nobleman’s wine. “I told you that years ago.”
“They must be stopped—driven from the city!”
“I told you that, too.”
“And the Irrune! I thought you’d gotten rid of the barbarians!”
“I thought I had, Lord Serripines, no thanks from you. I’ve heard they’re quite happy up there along the Spine.”
“They’re ravaging my fields!” Lord Serripines sputtered. “They’re attacking me, as if I were their enemy. They’re madmen, too—I am not their enemy!”
“The Irrune are not mad, Lord Serripines—they’ve simply made a mistake. The Irrune believe the Bloody Hands cherish the same things they themselves cherish. The Fist of the Bloody Hand of Dyareela executed Arizak’s brother. The Irrune would execute the Fist’s brother, if he had one or Arizak could touch him. But they can’t, so they ravage the villages, instead. As the Irrune see it, the villages are the herds of Sanctuary, and if the Fist were Irrune, he and the rest of the Bloody Hand would have to come out from behind the walls to protect or avenge them. You and I, Lord Serripines, we both know that the Hands are not the Irrune. The Irrune cannot goad or outrage the Hand. The Hand’s only weapon is terror. It is more effective with some than with others.”
Molin sipped his wine while Lord Serripines grew dangerously pale and quiet. A knotted vein on his forehead throbbed as if it might burst, but when the nobleman spoke his voice was soft and calm.
“I’ve appealed to the emperor—”
“Pork all,” Molin interrupted, resorting to vulgarity. “Ferrex is madder than the Hands … and he won’t lend you one of his birdbrained armies.”
“I know,” Serripines replied, perhaps the most painful admission he’d ever uttered. “I’d hoped … you … You were quite the soldier in your day, quite the hero. And you sent the barbarians away before … .”
“So, you think I’m the one to send them away again. Explain to them that the farmers they’re killing, the fields they’re burning have nothing to do with the boys who got skinned last autumn? Would you listen to such tripe, Lord Serripines?”
“I’d hoped there was something you could do, because you have proven yourself wiser than all of us—wiser than I—time and time before. I’d hoped you could see a way to rid Sanctuary of the Irrune and the Hand together. To turn them against each other, the way you turned the Irrune against the Gunderpah brigands.”
The man had audacity, Molin would grant him that. He set the goblet down; it was a prime Caronne vintage, as old as he was himself, and it would be a sin to waste one drop. “The Irrune are raiders, Vion, not an army. The Irrune live in tents. Their idea of a wall is something you can cut with a knife. Sanctuary’s wall stopped them. If you want to drive the Hands out of Sanctuary, you’ve got to get into the palace, then you’ve got to drive them out. Gods, Vion—do you have any idea what that place is like on the inside? I’ll take the damned Maze any day over the palace storerooms. And the Irrune—they’d be chasing their tails after the first step.”
“I was hoping—and I’m not the only one holding hope—that you’d lead them. You’re Vashanka’s Architect. The way I always heard that, Vashanka’s Architect doesn’t spend all his time drawing up the plans for the next temple, his true calling is battle plans.”
“You’re mad, Vion.” Molin deflected the flattery. “Madder than the emperor. Madder than the Hands themselves.”
But the back of his mind was already churning. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done.
It would be done.
The next day, Molin took what he needed from his locked treasure chests, then covered them with dusty canvas and shuttered