During the next few days Koolhaus began to revise this opinion. Simon had been more or less left to his own devices throughout his life and was wholly undisciplined, never having been brought under control by any system of education or good behavior. Two things made it possible for Koolhaus to teach him: Simon’s fear and worship of Cale and his own desperate desire to learn to communicate with others now that he had experienced this wonderful pleasure, even if only at the simple level afforded by the limited silent language of the Redeemers. This combination made Simon a more promising pupil than he at first appeared, and they made swift progress, albeit interrupted at least twice a day by tantrums brought about by Simon’s frustration at not being able to understand what Koolhaus was doing. The first time Simon had one of these outbursts, an alarmed Koolhaus sent for Cale, who shut Simon up by threatening to give him a good thrashing unless he behaved himself. Simon, who, after the stitching incident, believed Cale capable of anything, did as he was told. Cale made a performance out of handing over his authority to Koolhaus to deliver horrible but unspecified punishments, and that was that. Koolhaus got on with his teaching, and Simon, who beyond anything wanted to please Cale, got on with learning. Koolhaus was not under any circumstances to tell anyone what he was doing, and his presence was explained away by letting it be known that he was Simon’s temporary bodyguard.
Though unaware of Cale’s bigger ambitions for her brother, Arbell Swan-Neck was well aware of what else he was doing for him. There were no games in the Sanctuary-play was an occasion of sin. The nearest thing to it was a training exercise in which two sides, separated only by a line neither side was allowed to cross, attempted to hit members of the other side with a leather bag on a string. If this seems harmless enough, you should know that the leather bag was filled with large stones. Serious injury was common; death was rare but not unknown. Realizing the three of them were getting flabby from the easy life of Memphis, Cale revived the game but with sand instead of rocks. Though it was still intended only as a training exercise, they were amazed to discover that without the threat of constant serious injury they were laughing and enjoying themselves. Lacking a player, they let Simon join in. He was awkward and without the grace of other Materazzi, but full of energy and so much enthusiasm that he was constantly hurting himself. He never seemed to mind this. They made so much noise, laughing and jeering at each other’s failure and incompetence, that Arbell could not fail to hear them. Often she would stand watching at the window high over the garden as her brother laughed and played and belonged for the first time in his life.
This too sank deeper into her heart-along, of course, with the strange power and strength of Cale, his muscle and his sweat as he ran and threw and chased and laughed.
Later, after he had been outside her room for an hour or so, she had Riba call him in. While she carefully prepared herself in her bedroom to appear casually beautiful, Cale waited in the main chamber. As this was his first opportunity to look around on his own, he began a systematic check of everything, from what books were on the tables to the tapestries and the large painting of a couple that dominated the room. He was inspecting this closely when Arbell entered behind him and said, “That’s my great-grandfather and his second wife. They caused a great scandal by actually being in love with each other.” He was about to ask why she had a portrait of these two on the wall when she changed the subject.
“I wanted,” she said, softly and shyly, “to thank you for all you’ve done for Simon.” Cale did not reply, because he didn’t know how and because this was the first time the object of his confused adoration had spoken to him in such a kindly way since he had first seen her and been struck down by love. “I saw you playing your game today is what I mean. He’s so happy to have people to…” She was going to say “play with” but realized that this alternately brutal and kind young man might take this the wrong way. “Be friendly to him. I’m very grateful.”
Cale liked the sound of this very much.
“That’s all right,” he said. “He picks things up quickly, once you can explain what’s going on. We’ll toughen him up.” As soon as he said it, he realized that it was not quite the thing to say. “I mean we’ll teach him how to look after himself.”
“You won’t teach him anything too dangerous?” she said.
“I won’t teach him to kill anyone, if that’s what you mean.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, crestfallen at having offended him. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”
But Cale was not as touchy around her as he used to be. He realized there had been a considerable warming toward him.
“No, you weren’t rude. I’m sorry for always being so quick to take offense. IdrisPukke told me to remember I’m just a hooligan and to be more careful around people who were properly brought up.”
“He didn’t,” she said, laughing.
“He certainly did. He doesn’t have much respect for my sensitive side.”
“Do you have one?”
“I don’t know. Do you think it would be a good thing?”
“I think it would be a wonderful thing.”
“Then I’ll try-though I don’t know how. Perhaps you could tell me when I’m behaving like a hooligan and tell me off.”
“I’d be too frightened,” she said, her eyelids fluttering slowly up and down.
He laughed. “I know everyone thinks I’m no more good-natured than a polecat, but I draw the line at killing someone just for telling me off about being a thug.”
“You’re much more than that.” Her eyes still fluttered.
“But still a thug, all the same.”
“Now you’re being oversensitive again.”
“You see. You’ve told me off and I haven’t killed anyone-and I’ll keep trying to do better.”
She smiled and he laughed, and yet another step was taken deeper into the chambers of her baffled heart.
Kleist was teaching Simon and Koolhaus how to fletch an arrow with goose feathers. This was Simon’s third failed effort, and he was so furious he broke the arrow and threw the two pieces across the room. Kleist looked at him calmly and signaled to Koolhaus to translate.
“Do that again, Simon, and you’ll get my boot up your shiv.”
“Shiv?” asked Koolhaus, wanting to show his distaste for such coarseness.
“You’re so clever, work it out for yourself.”
“Guess what I’ve found in the cellar under here?” said Vague Henri, coming into the room as if someone had given him jam on his bread as well as butter.
“How, in God’s name,” said Kleist not looking up from the table, “am I supposed to guess what you’ve found in the cellar?”
Vague Henri refused to allow his excitement to be diminished. “Come and look.” His joy was so obvious that now Kleist was curious. Henri led them down to the floor under the palazzo and along an increasingly dark corridor to a small door that he opened with difficulty. Once in, a high-up casement window gave them all the light they needed.
“I was talking to one of the old soldiers, who was telling me all his war stories-interesting stuff, as it happens-and he mentioned that about five years ago he’d been on a scouting duty in the Scablands looking for Gurriers and they came across a Redeemer juggernaut that’d got separated from the main wagon train. There were only a couple of Redeemers standing about, so they told them to get lost and confiscated the juggernaut.” He went over to a tarpaulin and swept it to one side. Underneath was a huge collection of relics: holy gibbets of various sizes in wood and metal, statues of the Hanged Redeemer’s Holy Sister, the blackened toes and fingers of various martyrs preserved in small, elaborately decorated containers-one even had a nose in it, at least that was what Vague Henri thought it was; after seven hundred years it was hard to tell. There was Saint Stephen of Hungary’s right forearm and also a perfectly preserved heart.