A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 13 (Part 2 of 2)

The morning of Imlon’s departure dawned cold and suffocated by fog.  From his window the astronomer could not see the gatehouse of Exodus, and he heard the approach of the carter he had hired before he saw him.  As he carried down his chests, cases and wrapped instruments, ghostly black-robed shapes appeared all around as the scholars of the House, who had been walking to the chapel for the morning service, stopped to watch.  He wasn’t sure if they were talking or not.  The only clear sounds were the thuds of objects being loaded into the cart and the impatient pawing of the horse that drew it.

By the time Imlon sent for his own horse, it seemed that all of Exodus was stood watching.  He tried to avoid looking at the silent crowd, like a gathering of crows, as he lifted himself into the saddle and rode away.  The chapel bell tolled behind him.  When he turned, the quadrangle was empty.  Exodus was soon swallowed by the fog.

“Beef on the bone, slaughtered ‘amorn!  Come sir, come!” cried a butcher as Imlon rode by, careful to avoid the bloody gutter outside the shop.  The streets were the same as ever, but leeched of all colour.  Even the heady smells of Merchanters were masked by sterile air.  The astronomer wore his thickest cloak and tugged it closer around his shoulders.  He prayed that a friend would be waiting for him at the column.

The Fortress of the Watch, a squat castle on the southern line of the Ducal Wall, loomed ominously out of the persistent mist.  Carts trundled up and down the road to the portcullis alongside little groups of Watchmen, their hoods shrouding their faces in a way that made them look more like thugs than guards.  Imlon fingered in his pocket for his license, fumbling as the Watchmen looked up at him like an intruder, but then he saw a horseman waiting by the gateway.  Beneath the rider’s enormous hood, he could just see a black and silver beard and the creases of wrinkled skin.

“Pyros?” said Imlon, trying to peer beneath the hood.  The rider jumped in surprise.

“Imlonavar!” said the Phoronacian, revealing himself.  “You startled me.  My mind was somewhere else.  Ah, it usually is.”

The astronomer smiled, a seed of guilt germinating in his gut.  He should not have asked Pyros to come.  It was unfair.  “Do you keep well?” he said.

“Yes, yes.  And you?  Are you prepared for this?”

“I am.  You received my letter, then?”

“I did,” said Pyros.  For all the usual rushing of his words, he sounded tired.

“Are you coming with me?” said Imlon.  “You mustn’t think it a demand, Pyros.  If you have any doubts, stay in the city, I can manage without you.”

“The cold months of Monruath do not agree with me,” said Pyros.  “I’m a Phoronacian, I should be steaming in the baths at Vostrademos.”

“I understand,” said Imlon.  A weight sank in his chest.  “Thank you for coming to see me away.”

Pyros’ head shot up.  “Hm?  No, no, don’t be foolish.  I’m coming with you.”  He leant in closer, nudging the astronomer.  “Though the cold of the Nest still won’t agree with me.”

“Are you sure?  Please, Pyros, don’t think you have to.”

“Oh, fie!  Go to!  I will come.”

The weight inside Imlon turned to air.  “Thank you.”

“Well, it’s...”

“No.  Don’t say anything, don’t bumble on.  Thank you.  In honesty.  Thank you.”

Pyros mouth still moved, but no words emerged.  “Do I bumble?” he said at length.  “Bumble?  Is that what I do?”

“Yes,” said Imlon, “When you aren’t talking about one of your projects.  Then you speak so quickly that I can’t tell what you’re saying.”