Chapter 5 #6
Unless some careless fool had burned it down since I was last there, yes.
Laugar means camp. Once upon a time it was the headquarters of the invincible Imperial Twelfth Army, charged with keeping the peace north of the Durus mountains.
In those days, soldiers had a lot of disposable income, and their officers tended to be men of breeding and refinement.
Laugar was the Jewel of the North, and touring companies regularly brought up the latest hits from the city theatres.
Many famous actresses came to Laugar, with the fixed intention of marrying a lieutenant colonel.
It was celebrated for its dressmakers, milliners and perfumiers, and many wealthy civilians made the long pilgrimage so they could splash about in the miraculous waters of the natural hot mineral spring that still gurgles down from the slopes of West Hill.
The Rosinholet took and burned Laugar in a day, and now it’s forty or so timber-framed houses with turf roofs.
“I remember it well,” she said. “Nice place. I did a lot of business there.”
I felt as though there were hands around my throat. “I bet,” I said.
“It was that sort of town, back in the day. People knew how to have a good time, before the Fall.”
There’s an inn at Laugar. It’s not quite up to the standards of the King of Kings, where the emperor Besseric stayed on his way to fight the Northern Confederacy during the Second Social War; the carp pools have long since gone, and honey-roast peacock is no longer on the menu.
Instead there’s a single oblong room with straw pallets on the floor, and if you ask nicely, a bad-tempered woman will sell you lentil porridge and rancid beer with bits floating in it.
“Many people staying here?” I asked her.
She scowled at me. “Just you two and the scholar and her goons,” she said. Then someone called for her and she went away.
“What kind of a scholar travels with goons?” I said.
“Define scholar. Actually—” She had a troubled look on her face. “This is awkward. It’s a nuisance there isn’t anywhere else to stay in Laugar. Would you mind awfully camping out tonight?”
“Yes,” I said. “I would mind, very much. What’s the problem?”
“The scholar,” she said, “is Mother Grimhild.”
“Oh, for crying out loud.”
“Quite. She’ll recognise Svangerd the moment she sets eyes on her. Also—”
She waited for me to say it. “She’ll see you.”
“Not guaranteed, by any means, but it’s not a risk I’m prepared to take. The goons, by the way, are two high-ranking brothers from the Order of Intercession. I’d really rather not get involved with them, either.”
I knew all about Mother Grimhild from Svangerd.
She was the reason Svangerd was a nun. I won’t bore you with the details, which were told me in strict confidence, but there came a day when Svangerd grew sick and tired of the hospitality industry and handed in her notice, in the form of a meat skewer stuck in a man’s ear.
After that, Svangerd needed to make herself hard to find for a while, and she ended up on the doorstep of a mission.
While she was there, she had a conversation with Mother Grimhild, a senior officer of the Order who was making a tour of inspection.
Actually it wasn’t a conversation, more a violent slanging match, which ended with Svangerd trying to break the holy mother’s neck.
Imagine Svangerd’s surprise when the holy mother tripped and pinned her, then got her in a headlock and throttled her till she blacked out.
When she came round, the holy mother was sitting at her bedside.
Grimhild explained that she belonged to the Mission Militant, which among other things accounted for her knowing moves that Svangerd had never seen before, in spite of a lifetime on the street.
I’ll teach them to you, Grimhild said, if you like.
Only, in return, you let me teach you some other stuff, which you may find even more useful.
The upshot of that was that Svangerd got religion.
That’s a pathetic understatement. It was, she told me, a moment of absolute clarity, a point in her life when suddenly everything made sense, and the dazzling light that surrounded her was in fact the blindingly obvious.
Naturally she begged to be allowed to join the Order.
No, Grimhild said, not yet. Go away and come back in six months.
But you won’t be here in six months’ time, Svangerd pointed out.
Exactly, Grimhild said. You need to know you believe in God, not me.
The miserable woman at the inn was right: Grimhild is a formidable scholar.
Among other things, she’s the greatest living expert on several schools of armed and unarmed combat, dating back to before the Fall, lovingly preserved by Holy Mother Church for the use of those of her servants who need to know that sort of thing.
She could break you in half with her little finger, Svangerd told me once.
As well as combat techniques, Grimhild is also a leading authority on practical and applied demonology, a field of endeavour which takes up a large part of her working life.
“This,” she said through chattering teeth, as we sheltered under a wholly inadequate bush, “isn’t a coincidence. Grimhild, turning up here, right now—”
“Maybe not,” I said.
“Absolutely not. They reckon she can track us by scent, like a dog.”
“That’s possible,” I said. “Or it could just be that she heard about the fire at Angkola, and because she’s high up in the Order she could easily have known that you and I, sorry, Svangerd and I, had been sent there, and let’s face it, we haven’t made ourselves all that difficult to trace, not if you know what you’re looking for.
Or she figured that if we were walking home from Angkola, sooner or later we’d show up in Laugar. ”
She looked at me. She was scared.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I know, I ought to hand you over, or at least tell her how to find you. But if I do that, I’m going to be in all sorts of trouble for aiding and abetting the Forces of Darkness.
And besides, I know enough about Grimhild to figure that she wouldn’t worry too much about collateral damage when it came to evicting you. ”
“She’d kill Svangerd without a second thought.”
“If you made it necessary, yes. So for the time being, we’re on the same side. It won’t be too difficult,” I added, “steering clear of her out here in the wilderness. There’s plenty of space to hide in.”
“Dream on. You don’t know her. She’s got this kind of sixth sense. She can feel when she’s close to us.”
“You’re scared.”
“Too bloody right I’m scared.”
“Oh, come off it. You’re immortal.”
“No, I’m still alive, there’s a difference.
Also, compared to some of the alternatives, death is no big deal.
The really horrible thing about Grimhild is, she’s vindictive.
She doesn’t just yearn for the triumph of the Kingdom of Heaven, she hates us.
She likes hurting us. And she knows how to do it. ”
“My heart bleeds.”
“Bastard. I’m sorry,” she said quickly, “I didn’t mean that. We’re on different sides, you’ve made no bones about it.”
“I never said any such thing,” I said. “I believe that you’re a rare and complicated form of life that we know next to nothing about.
You have some pretty weird abilities, but, then, so do glow-worms, and you firmly believe that it’s your duty to further some ridiculous plan, but that’s just you being deluded, and it’s no worse than all the people who believe in the Invincible Sun.
I don’t like the fact that you’re violating the body of my dearest friend, and at some point I’ll get even with you for that, but that’s not the same as being on different sides.
It’s not about principles or conscience.
I hate you because you’re occupying my friend, not because of what you are. ”
I stopped. I’d had an idea. It was truly horrible.
She was looking at me. She knew what I was thinking. She waited for me to put it into words, out loud, where it could be taken down and used in evidence against me.
I didn’t say anything.