Jack of Ravens

1

Eboracum, AD 306

Lamps guttered in windows across the city and water gushed from orange roof tiles into streets turned into a thick, brown swamp by the storm. The wind and rain drowned out all the sounds of the city, but the stink of human filth tossed out into the road could not be obscured even by the aromas of hundreds of evening meals.

Cursing the vile weather for June, Church kept close to the graffiti-scarred walls as he struggled to make his way in the gloom. The bathhouse, the forum and the basilica lay behind him. Now he was in the oppressive jumble of houses, inns and small shops that sprawled towards the fort where the Sixth Legion was billeted.

Eventually he located the tavern on one of the side streets and slipped into its cramped, musty interior. The beams were too low and it was filled with too many men crammed onto benches, talking animatedly about the day’s rumours. A few played dice, their eyes feverish, while others voraciously consumed plates of cheese and meat after the day’s hard labour.

Church loosened his dripping cloak and threw his hood from his head as he pushed his way to the bar. Nobody gave him a second glance. There at the fringes of the Empire they were used to strangers from far-flung parts.

‘New to Eboracum?’ the barman said gruffly.

‘I have travelled a long way. Wine.’

The barman poured a goblet of warmed red wine from a large jug. ‘This is the finest in the Empire,’ he said.

Church knew it would be a cheap stew from Crete, but it would take the edge off the night. He tossed a copper coin across the bar and felt a twinge of guilt that tomorrow the barman would find himself in possession of a shiny pebble once the glamour had worn off. ‘You have a room reserved for me,’ Church said. ‘A woman and her slave should be waiting.’

The barman nodded. ‘That slave scared my wife. What happened to him?’

‘He was badly burned in a fire at his mistress’s home.’ Church knew this would strike a chord: with torches, oil lamps and candles the only source of light, fire was a constant fear. ‘That is why he covers his face.’

And a good job, too. It is too monstrous for people to see.’ The barman led Church through a door and up a narrow, twisting stairway. The rooms were as cramped as the bar below and furnished sparsely with a bed, a chair and a table.

Church was ushered into one that reeked of the olive oil burning in the lamp on the window sill. Niamh waited there, wrapped in a voluminous cloak, the hood pulled low to obscure her identity. Jerzy sat on the floor in one corner. His head was swathed in cloth with two eye-holes cut out so that he resembled a latter-day Elephant Man.

‘Have you located him?’ Niamh asked once the barman had gone.

Church had seen cracks emerge in Niamh’s frosty demeanour since the night the Libertarian had penetrated what she’d believed to be unshakeable defences to give her a taste of a previously alien dish: mortality. The deaths of members of her guard had particularly affected her. Over the last few days, hitherto-unseen emotions had been emerging rapidly: unease, doubt, suspicion and perhaps the first nascent hints of fear.

‘I spoke to some of the hookers hanging around outside the curia. They hadn’t seen or heard anything, and in a place like this news travels as fast as syphilis.’ Church collapsed on the bed. He was wet, cold and exhausted, and surprised to find himself thinking warmly of the luxuries of the Court of the Soaring Spirit and the balmy climate of T’ir n’a n’Og.

‘That is not good enough,’ Niamh snapped. ‘You must search harder.’

‘Tomorrow.’

Jerzy flinched like a whipped dog. He looked fearfully at Niamh, expecting retaliation.

‘Now,’ Niamh said.

‘You can send me out there, but you can’t make me look.’ Jerzy had told Church how Niamh had once covered him in boils for an imagined slight, but Church had too much self-respect to fawn.

Niamh went to the window and looked out into the driving rain. In a few short centuries she would have a good view of York Minster, and a few centuries after that the Yorkshire countryside that was now shrouded in impenetrable gloom would be ablaze with electric lights, crushed beneath tarmac, industrial estates, shopping centres. But the heart of it would always be Eboracum.

Jerzy lifted his mask, his face glowing like a spectre in the corner of the room. ‘My Lady, a question?’ he ventured cautiously. ‘Why are you here alone? Surely for a matter of such gravity you should be accompanied by other Golden Ones?’

‘The Golden Ones are a proud race, used to being tied to the heart of Existence. We have no beginning, we have no ending. Thus we cannot ever be defeated, or harmed. We cannot be threatened. Nothing troubles us. Nothing demands our attention,’ Niamh replied, distracted.

‘How can you say that?’ Church said. ‘The Libertarian killed several of your people.’

After a moment of silence, Niamh replied, ‘That did not happen.’

‘Come on-’

Niamh spoke over him. ‘I discussed the matter with many of my kind and it was agreed that since such a thing could not happen, it did not happen.’

Church laughed in amazement. ‘Humanity’s been scared of you for thousands of years, but you’re just as pathetic as any group that won’t face up to reality.’

Niamh turned to Church, her eyes blazing. ‘And have you faced up to reality? You are my puppet until I decide it is time to cut your strings. You cannot view your distant love unless I say so. Brother of Dragons, indeed! Are you really the best that Existence can find to champion its cause? The ravens still follow you. You have already presided over the deaths of those you lured into helping you. Now your contemporaries are at risk, and still there is nothing you can do about it. That is pathetic.’

Church flinched. Niamh saw, and smiled.

‘Lesser beings should know their place.’ She returned her attention to the view out of the window. ‘To attempt to rise above your station will only result in misery.’

‘There’s nothing you can do to stop me helping my friends-’ Church began.

Jerzy jumped to his feet, urging Church to remain silent. ‘Mistress, my good friend meant no disrespect. We are, of course, as concerned for your brother’s safety as yourself, and we will do everything within our power to help.’

‘Then go out again,’ she said.

‘It’s pointless,’ Church snapped. ‘If a golden-skinned god proclaiming to be Lugh had appeared in Eboracum, the whole town would have been talking about it. I don’t even understand why you’re so sure he’s missing.’

‘There is a hierarchy amongst the Golden Ones. Those who come first are linked. We feel each other — and I can no longer feel my brother.’

‘So he could be dead?’

Niamh ignored the question. ‘My brother visited this place recently. It was the last time I was aware of his presence.’ Niamh bowed her head slightly so that the hood cast her face into shadow. ‘You can mingle amongst your own kind, hear their secret words in a way that I could not.’

‘So now you need me-’

‘My relationship with them is one of supplicant and god. I do not need to hear prayers. I want the words they would never dare speak to me.’

Church recognised an opportunity in her words. ‘I’ll do what I can to find your brother. And if I do manage to bring him back here I want a reward. I want to be freed from your control. Agreed?’

Niamh thought for a moment and then said, ‘Agreed.’

And that was when Church realised how truly scared she was.