raised his own contribution, fixed to an iron nail like the others, and hammered it in. He was large and powerfully built, his brown hair tangled and his beard unkempt, giving him the appearance of a barbarian from the Waste, but the expression on his face was piteous. A muddy thumb-print adorned his cheek as though in mockery of a Harlequin’s bloody teardrop, and his face was streaked by tears that flowed once again as he prayed.
A child could look fiercer than this bear of a man, Luerce thought as he gazed past him and noted with satisfaction that the guards on the gate were paying no attention. The watchful gaze of a Harlequin ensured that: while the storyteller had not spoken one word except in song, its demeanour was unmistakable, even to the witless thugs who comprised the duchess’ personal regiments. It stood over the crowds day and night, a sentinel for the faithful as they awaited Ruhen’s benediction.
Slowly we go, oh so slowly. Luerce’s attention drifted from the motionless Harlequin to a white-clad disciple who was handing out black-crusted bread to the crowd. The man was speaking urgently as they jammed the bread into their mouths, bending right over them as he whispered.
Keep on with the good works, my friend, but any more of your religious nonsense and you’ll find an accident coming your way. We cannot bully the people into following Ruhen; they must beg it of him. He rubbed his thin fingers over his bald head, feeling the unfamiliar shape of his skull once covered by luxuriant blond hair. The beggar beside him looked up at the movement, awaiting his next command. He could see in her hollow eyes the awe she still felt, the otherworldly image he now presented to the Land. Once she had been beautiful, but hunger had taken its toll - for which Luerce was profoundly thankful. He had no wish to discover how his master would react if he discovered Luerce submitting to temptation whilst playing the holy man - and Ruhen would find out, no matter how he tried to cover his tracks. He had no doubt of that.
‘Go and read the latest prayer,’ he said softly. She scrambled to obey, almost barging the bear-like man out of the way in her haste.
‘A prayer for salvation,’ she announced with what she clearly thought was grandeur, ‘salvation from the dragon that killed his family yesterday.’
The wordless prayers increased in volume at her words, and drained what was left of the man’s remaining strength. He huddled over his knees, doubled up by the pain inside.
Luerce smiled inwardly. About bloody time. I was wondering if I was going to have to do it myself.
He looked around, searching for a picture of misery amidst a sea of it. The mercenary Grisat was difficult to pick out now that he’d shed his penitent’s uniform, but Bolla, Grisat’s brother-in-arms, was far easier to spot. The tall shaven-headed man sat bolt-upright, staring into nothing as he chewed numbroot day and night.
Ah, numbroot addicts, the most amenable of fools. Luerce smiled inwardly, remember his former life of petty theft and fraud. Numbroot was as benign a drug as one could find, and it took real commitment to wind up an addict, as Bolla clearly was. Aracnan, the Demi-God who served Azaer, had used Grisat to engineer a campaign of resistance after the failure of the clerics’ rebellion. Bolla had played his part in that without questioning his orders, using numbroot to dull the pain of his injuries along with his ability to care about the rest of the Land.
‘Our brother asks for salvation,’ Luerce called out, causing a small commotion as the huddled mass turned to look at him. ‘Byora’s children cry out for salvation! Pray, pray with me for intercession!’
As he finished his eyes came to rest on Bolla and Grisat. More voices joined in the chant, the volume increased and Bolla began to sway in an unconscious response to the sound. Grisat, a solid-looking man, contrived to look even more miserable. Though he looked as if he had entirely gone to seed, the mercenary was still strong, well worth his pay - but Luerce only had one use for him. Finally, reluctantly, Grisat lifted his grey eyes to meet the Litse’s. The order was understood.
The mercenary flinched and tugged his filthy coat tighter around his body, but he wasted no time in using the magical link Aracnan had created between them to contact the Demi-God. In