“May I ask what is happening, Honored Chancellor?” Bradomir sidled up, oily and obsequious.
Tain hesitated, glancing at the group of Councilors who had floated into hearing range like silent wraiths. One hand stole up to his upper arm, where bandages still covered the Chancellery tattoos. After a moment, he gestured to the messenger and the man repeated his news.
Marco snapped to immediate attention, shedding his shrunken demeanor. “Honored Chancellor, we need to secure the gates immediately until we know who or what is approaching.”
“It’s not an army, Warrior-Guilder, don’t worry,” Tain said. “That’s what the Guard thought at first, but it’s our own people. Farmers, estatefolk.”
“But they’re wearing masks?” Varina, the Theater-Guilder, said. She stood too straight and spoke too loudly, with the exaggerated care of an intoxicated person trying to appear sober.
Another messenger, this one behind us, suddenly stepped through the gathering crowd and clarified. “Not masks. They’ve veiled their faces below the eyes, Honored Chancellor. And they’re coming from all directions, not just west. Across the plains and on the roads. They’re singing, we think. Can’t make it out, but old hymns, or something.”
“Our messengers obviously reached the estates, then,” said Credo Javesto. “I expect the workers have been given permission to stop work on their farms to show respect for the late Chancellor. I’ve seen a Darfri funeral before. I think they cover their faces as some kind of mourning ritual.”
Credo Bradomir whispered something to Credola Varina about Javesto’s upbringing; I didn’t hear it properly but the scornful tone was clear enough. He’d spent some of his childhood on his family’s estates rather than in Silasta, and no amount of expensive city living could erase that humble past in the eyes of some of his colleagues. He was also very new to the Council, only recently having taken his great-aunt’s seat.
“Peasants don’t respect anything.” Credola Nara’s tone was acidic as always. “They don’t even understand honor. Probably just want a day off work.”
“You know, I can’t imagine why workers on your land don’t respect you. It’s a real mystery, Credola.” Javesto turned to Tain. “We should give word to open the gates for the crowds. Chancellor Caslav was their Chancellor, too, and they’ve just as much right to mourn as us.”
“My dear fellow, it’s a matter of practicality,” Bradomir said. “The gates to the city are shut today and must remain so. There is no room around the Bright Lake for thousands more mourners.”
As in Council, Tain’s vague bewilderment at the argument abruptly vanished; he cleared his throat aggressively until the cacophony quieted. “We’ll finish the ceremony,” he said. “But afterwards, I’ll go out to the walls and personally thank our people for coming to honor my Tashi.”
Councilors exchanged calculating looks. The man they had regarded as a good-humored but somewhat irresponsible young relative rather than a player in Silastian politics was unpredictable, and forcing changes in their game.
Tain gestured to the musicians and the ceremony continued, culminating with us all singing along to the end of the mourning song. He left, head low, before the rest of us, but once we were free to move I followed Jov through the dispersing crowd to catch up with Tain as he headed west toward the city gate.
He caught sight of us. “I’m going to wait at the gate. Come with me? Unless you’re not finished doing whatever it is you’re doing.” The last was directed at my brother, who wore a frown of concentration and knotted his fingers tightly. “I can tell when you’re obsessing over something.”
“Hardly a brilliant insight,” I said. “You could say he was obsessing over something every couple of minutes and you’d be right most times.”
He grinned, if halfheartedly. “What’s the matter?”
Jov looked between us, his anxiety apparent. “Don’t you think this is odd? Yes, we sent messengers out, but everyone just, what, dropped tools and started walking? How are they all arriving at the same time? It’s just … it’s odd, is all.”
I nodded. “It is. Are we absolutely sure that it’s actually our people? I’m still not sure about the veiling.”
“Maybe if we could hear what they were singing, as well,” Jov said. He stopped and looked over the small group of servants tailing us. “Are any of you believers? Or do you have family out in the country who are?”
All four servants shook their heads. “We were all born here in Silasta, Credo Jovan,” one said. “I’ve got distant family out in the Losi valley who’re probably earthers, but I don’t know much about it.”
We crossed Bell’s Bridge, following the main road through the lower city to the road gate in the outer west wall, a thick and imposing testament to a violent past that modern Silastians didn’t like to remember. A repetitive crunch of gravel from outside marked the grim shuffle of the people approaching on the road. Tain started up the external steps of the tower by the gate.
“I’m going to go up and see how far they are,” he said as he ascended. “If you can think of anything about Darfri mourning customs, any tips you could give me about something I can say, so I don’t accidentally insult some spirit or something, let me know. They’ve come all this way, I don’t want to look like an insensitive prick.”
Jovan leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. He might not have studied other cultures as I had but he had an amazing memory. He’d once tried to describe to me how he could take a familiar book off a shelf in his mind, recalling the feel of its pages, the smell of the ink, the illuminations and words. He’d read every book in the Manor and school libraries and, thanks to his compulsions, a lot of them more than once. Sometimes his obsessiveness could be an advantage.
Watching from the guard post as Tain made his way slowly up the tower was a strapping Order Guard with long braids. Her bicep was marked with the Warrior Guild’s knife, and her broad face wore a worried scowl.
“Ancient mourning practices,” Jov murmured, his eyes still closed, as if he were reading aloud from a book behind his eyes. “People used to—I mean I guess they still do, out there—think that death could be an offering to the spirits. Burying bodies near the person’s birthplace was about offering their essence back to the earth spirits. But there’s nothing about veiling as part of a funeral ritual.”
Jov opened his eyes. “Veiling, there was something about veiling I remember.…” His eyes widened. “Oh, shit. Tain!” he bellowed, scrambling up the steps.
A whistle and a high-pitched whine, then something made contact with the walls. The pale stone shuddered. I started after my brother, breath catching in my throat. “What’s happening?”
Tain, open-mouthed, burst through the tower door above. “They’re armed!” he yelled, disbelieving. “They’re attacking us!” Behind him, through the open tower door, the Order Guard tugged at the old bellpull, which labored and jerked under her strong grip.
Jov sprang up the last few steps and I followed, chest tight, to see the view for myself through the thin slit in the stone tower—rows and rows of eerie masked figures, stretching out beyond the walls in every direction. Bows in their hands revealed their intent. Not mourners but an army, marching straight toward us. Arrows struck the wall and the ground like pelting hail. After the volley, a roar drowned out the sound of the bell.