Scar Night Page 0,37

I doubt I could lift a lash, let alone apply it with the force necessary to inflict pain.”

Dill cringed at the mere mention of the whip; nevertheless, he replied, “I understand. I will speak to Borelock.”

“No, lad, no. I will not have them think me a weakling, a crippled old priest who cannot perform his duties. In this case I think we will dispense with the whip.”

There were poisons a hundred times worse than the lash, poisons that could sculpt ingenious landscapes of suffering without permanent damage to the body. Dill’s eyes flared white, his knees trembled, and it was all he could do to remain standing.

“When you leave here,” the Presbyter said, “I suggest you walk with a stoop, wear a grimace on your face. Avoid looking directly at the priests—and say nothing.” He shrugged. “Let them fill their heads with imagined beatings and poisons and god knows what else. Let them wonder at their old master’s fury. Why should we not contrive the required effect without straining ourselves unduly? Would that not save us both a little pain? If any should grin, or mock you, let me know quietly. Do you understand?”

Dill was trembling so much, his nod became an extension of his shaking.

“Don’t be so afraid, lad. Help me, cover for my weakness, and I will endeavour to have any future punishments administered in this manner too. Not that I expect to see you before me again like this. You are an adult now. Do we have an agreement?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good.” Presbyter Sypes smiled. “Mustn’t let any of them think I’m a doddering old fool.”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Well, now, my nap has been disturbed, and I am currently enduring one of those rare moments of lucidity, so we may as well make the best of it. I’d say we have thirty lashes’ worth of time together, and they expect me to administer them at leisure. This is a schoolroom, so why not read something. Where are you in the curriculum?”

“Your Grace, you threw the curriculum away, during our last lesson.”

“I did?”

“Through the window.” Dill pointed out a fresh pane of glass, still smudged with the glazier’s fingerprints.

“Oh my. What book was it?”

“I don’t know. A heavy one.”

“Good for me, I loathe the dense stuff. Did we then study something else?”

“You said that, as I’d turned sixteen, it was time to learn the most important lessons of life.”

“Did I?” The Presbyter frowned. “Yes, yes, of course. I remember,” he said unconvincingly.

“Well, I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

“A topic we broached last time…?”

“Ah.” Presbyter Sypes stiffened. “Oh, my memory.” He rattled his fingers against his teeth. “Well, let’s not be bashful. If I’ve started on this subject, I ought to finish it…I suppose it was only a matter of time. Sixteen years, so of course…” He opened the journal again and scanned a page, but Dill suspected he wasn’t really reading it. The Presbyter had now turned an odd shade of pink. His lips thinned. He made a clucking sound. Finally, he fixed his eyes on Dill. “Women,” he said.

“No, Your Grace, it’s not that.”

“No?”

“We were talking about the war.”

“The war?” Presbyter Sypes let out a long sigh. “Ulcis’s grace, yes, the war. I’ll tell you about the war.”

For a moment he appeared to gather his thoughts, gazing past Dill. “Mostly the Heshette,” he muttered. “The others were too busy garrotting each other over goats or stealing each other’s wives. But the Heshette…” He kept nodding. “Three thousand years ago, Callis came to raise the temple over Ulcis’s realm, but the Heshette vowed to tear it down. The first battle, the Battle of the Tooth, came when Deepgate was still a community of tents and mud huts raised around the abyss. With no city walls to keep the heathens out, one hundred archons and barely two thousand pilgrims managed to defeat a horde twenty-five times their size.”

The Presbyter smiled. “But you already know this part of the tale?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Dill knew the story of that battle well. Many accounts had been written by scholars or past presbyters, and Presbyter Sypes himself had told him more than one.

“Then I’ll skip it.”

“No, Your Grace, please.”

The old priest’s smile broadened. “Scrimlock’s account began with two questions.”

Dill remembered: this was his favourite anecdote of the battle.

* * * *

How many?” Callis had asked. “And where?”

Balthus Brine hunched on his knees on the carpet of the Herald’s sun-baked tent, his broad shoulders casting a wide shadow across the map spread before him. “Herald, our best estimates put