Abhorrent Practices - Book 1

Chapter 5.4 - Brael (Scene 4: Past Tense)

Naylor followed Sandrine through the streets, deep into what had once been the centre of the city's administrative district. A fence rose up on their right, a wall of broken wood braced upright with rusted iron posts. Decades-old graffiti called for the burning of Tremayne, and cast slurs on the parentage of Grand Marshall Harlan. Naylor wondered again about the part Sandrine had played in the death of Tremayne's national hero. Could anyone raised in Brael have remained as dispassionate as she claimed?

Sandrine stopped by a plank which was hanging loosely from a single nail. Pulling it to one side, she revealed a small but well-used entrance to the other side. The earth beneath it had been worn down into a deep groove.

"Short cut," she said, her face impassive.

Naylor ducked under the plank and squeezed himself through the gap she'd opened up. On the other side of the fence, he straightened and raised his eyes. The shell of a once proud building rose up before him. Despite attempts to clean them, its walls of white marble and stone still showed yellow scorch marks around the edges of the vacant arches which had once been windows resplendent with stained glass.

Naylor knew the story of Canto's old Civic Palace. It had been the focal point of Braelish society for generations, but the fire had leapt onto the wooden dome which sat atop its gleaming white walls like a crown, savaged it mercilessly, and brought it crashing down in a seething froth of sparks and smoke.

He'd once met a trader from Brael who claimed to have been there when it happened. The dome had collapsed inwards, he'd said, destroying the oak-panelled offices and ceremonial chambers below, and sending them crashing down onto the floors beneath. The dying shrieks of the people trapped inside had rent the air, clearly audible above the roaring of the flames and the agonised groans of the building itself. Finally, the screams had ceased. The silence which followed, he'd said, had been far, far worse.

It had been the turning point in the city's fight against the Great Conflagration. As the Civic Palace fell, the firefighters had ceased any attempt to extinguish the fire and focused their efforts on simply trying to contain it, destroying whole streets which lay in its path. It had taken two more days but, eventually the Constabulary had brought the fire under control. Thousands of civilian lives had been lost, and Tremayne's Grand Marshall Harlan had become the most despised man in Brael.

Sandrine slipped through the gap in the fence and walked past Naylor, slowly advancing towards the building. Naylor followed her as she mounted the wide stone steps which led up to the building's main entrance. The charred remains of the heavy wooden doors had long since been removed, but the huge marble arch which had framed them still stood. In the years since the war, it had come to be seen as a monument in its own right.

"This is where I first met him," said Sandrine, pausing under the arch. "The Lord High Abbot."

Naylor furrowed his brow.

"You met him?" Sandrine had always been a private person, but he'd have expected something this important to have come up at some stage during the three years she'd spent on the Jennie. "When?"

"Years ago," she replied, forcing her feet to take a step forward. "I was born on a farmstead, a few miles north of the city. My parents died just after the war. There was a lot of sickness back then."

"How old were you?"

"I don't know. Two, maybe three. My brother was older: Kennin. He was eight, I think; almost nine. Food was scarce, so the government gave our farm to someone who could work it. Kennin thought he'd have more luck finding work here in Canto. Sometimes he'd get work on the docks, running messages. Most days he didn't. We lived on whatever he could steal or catch. He became pretty good at catching rats."