Scrivener’s Tale. Fiona McIntosh
you think he wouldn’t let us go?’
‘It crossed my mind. I didn’t want any attention drawn to us.’
‘Why do I think you didn’t discuss us coming to Barrowdean with Brother Josse?’
‘Because you are intuitive,’ said Fynch.
‘So is Loup.’
‘But Loup is obedient.’
‘So am I.’
‘But you live by your instincts. Loup doesn’t. He does only what he’s told. He can’t deviate.’
‘Except today,’ Cassien said, feeling a sudden surge of guilt.
‘Forget Loup. From now on you need to assume that everyone is your enemy.’
Cassien scoffed. ‘That’s dramatic.’
‘I can’t tell you from whom the threat might come.’
Cassien frowned as they walked, skirting the town, struggling with the noise, the dusty air and the new smells most of all.
‘You’ll have to get used to it,’ Fynch remarked and when Cassien threw him a glance, he added: ‘Your expression says droves, but you need to adjust quickly. I can’t have you staring in wonder at everything, or looking as shocked or disconcerted as you do, or you’ll be noticed.’
Cassien nodded absently, well aware that while his life had been slowed to a crawl, the rest of the world had clearly sped up. There were many people on the move, lots of yelling and frustrated carters angry with people in their way, while other people tried to weave around the disruptions, busy with their own chores. He saw a young woman lugging a basket as big as herself, full of linen. His inclination was to help her carry it but he knew by the set of her mouth how independent she obviously was. Dogs barked and gathered in groups, a bit like the old men sitting outside the dinch-houses grumbling about younger men and ogling the women who passed. There were so many people, so many horses and carts, wheelbarrows and activity. It made him feel dizzy.
‘Look at that,’ Fynch remarked, nodding toward the men clustered around their steaming pots. ‘We didn’t even know what dinch was in my time. Now we have watering holes dedicated to it.’
‘Really? Even I know dinch,’ Cassien replied.
‘You’re a lot younger than me,’ Fynch said with a wry smile. ‘It came over with the travellers and merchants. I gather the Penravens are particularly fond of their dinch and guard their recipes zealously. Would you like to take some with me?’ Fynch guided him to a table outside another dinch-house.
A serving girl was at their side immediately. She grinned at Cassien, who blinked.
‘I’ll have a pot please,’ Fynch said.
‘And for you, handsome?’ she said winking at Cassien.
‘The same,’ he said, amused by her saucy manner.
She bent down to place a jar of honey on their table, making sure that Cassien enjoyed a generous view of her breasts. ‘Right back, sirs,’ she said, casting him a jaunty smile before taking her next order. ‘Going to the bathhouse later?’ she quipped.
Cassien was too busy hungrily watching her to register her comment and it was several long moments before his wits came back and he turned to Fynch, realising how quiet it suddenly was. Fynch was smiling at him.
‘Sorry,’ Cassien said.
‘Don’t be. How long is it since you’ve been with a woman?’
He was not ready for such a direct question.
Fynch grinned and just for a moment Cassien glimpsed a boyish innocence. ‘Was that too direct?’
‘Er … it just took me by surprise.’
Fynch chuckled, genuinely amused. ‘I wanted to put you at your ease so you don’t have to apologise for enjoying the sight of a pretty girl. Did the priory make provision for your … needs?’
Cassien’s brief gust of a laugh was answer enough.
‘Ah,’ Fynch said, ‘that explains the phiggo root I noticed in your hut.’
He stared at the older man, confused. ‘I was instructed to brew a liquor from it each week and drink a spoon of it daily.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you were and I’m also sure that Loup checked on that brew and your supplies regularly.’
Cassien nodded. ‘He was quite particular. Assured me it was for strength, good health.’
Fynch sighed. ‘It’s traditionally used by armies to keep the men focused on their soldiering. It’s why you haven’t gone mad with pent-up lust.’
Cassien looked at his companion, astounded by this information. It made instant sense but that didn’t lessen the shock. ‘They drugged me?’ he murmured, shaking his head.
‘How else could they keep a virile young man in the forest without companionship for so long?’ Fynch nodded at the approaching serving girl. ‘Anyway, I’m sure you’ll rectify the situation soon enough, although perhaps it should wait until we reach Pearlis.’
Fynch hurried the serving girl on with a bigger than usual tip. He gently tossed the moneybag and a second one he’d dug from a pocket across the table. ‘You’ve had no need of coin in the past. But you will need it from here on. Tie those to your belt, although I do think we should kit you out with some fresh garb.’
Cassien looked down at his clothes. They were certainly the worse for wear. Dun, colourless, shabby.
‘Have we time?’
Fynch nodded. ‘Plenty. You could use a shave, a haircut, too. Drink up, Cassien. And while you do, I’ll talk.’
He took his first sip of dinch sweetened with honey, although sparingly, knowing all of these rich new substances hitting his belly might bring him some grief. He could taste flavours of cinnamon and shir, and something else he couldn’t identify. The taste was complex and delicious. He sipped slowly and paid attention as Fynch looked away, lost in his thoughts, before beginning to speak. Gone was the light-hearted tone of their previous conversation. His voice was grave now and his expression sombre.
‘I told you I don’t know what the re-emergence of the magic means, but it was a cynical, sinister and destructive magic when it was first cast so I can’t imagine that part of it has changed. There is a demon called Cyricus who is likely to be its puppeteer but I don’t know who will be its host. I warned her majesty of it more than fourteen moons ago. I felt it stirring then. The Wild is like that. It is highly sensitive to changes, not just in our world but in the spiritual world that surrounds us. My experience with Wyl Thirsk and the evil curse on his life meant I would always know the taint of the same magic.’
Cassien didn’t like to interrupt but couldn’t help himself. ‘You said you warned the royals.’
‘As best I could. The chancellor believed me, or at least in taking seriously any threat to Florentyna, magical or otherwise. He supported my efforts to have an audience. Darcelle, I learned, sneered at the suggestion; regarded me as some sort of senile herbwizard. The queen gave me a fair audience but she couldn’t countenance the threat of a demon.’
‘Does she trust you?’
‘That’s tricky. I sensed she wanted to but demonic threat is hard to prove … and she wanted proof.’
‘So?’
‘We decided to find it.’
‘We?’
‘The chancellor and I. He offered his help and I took it.’
‘What of Briavel? Every little morsel of news I could glean from Loup I would turn over in my mind for days, trying to piece it together with other titbits he’d give me. I got the impression that Briavel’s