Chapter 19: All Dwarves Are Not Created Equal (II)
"-. 274 AC .-"
Archmaester Marwyn didn't come back that day. Or that evening. Or that night. Luwin spent his first hours fretting, pacing and lying in bed by turns. Usually the latter. He could feel his strength returning after eating the Mage's food and drinking his water, but there wasn't much of that strength to go around. The stress of the isolation combined with Marwyn's revelation that he was wanted dead by one or two great houses combined into a frantic, gnawing paranoia. It still wasn't anywhere near the terrifying ordeal he'd just come out of though. Of spending a whole night and then three days and nights more in that absolute blackness only to slowly realise that no one was coming to let him out. Kicking at the door. Punching. Screaming himself hoarse. Sobbing helplessly in the darkness. He didn't know what that said about him. What any of that said about him. Or anything else.
Desperate to get his mind off the terrifying void of information that prevented him from formulating even a vaguely reliable theory about what all had led him to this place, Luwin decided to explore the room he was in. Or, more precisely, rooms. It turned out there was a privy opposite the door from the archmaester's desk, albeit one that barely smelled despite the small pool of piss and whatever else at the bottom that didn't seem to drain. After relieving himself, he went to check the exit. The locks turned out to be strong and sturdy. Luwin wished Ryben was there to pick them for him, even if he knew it would cost him hours of listening to his latest deluge of prurient gossip.
The wall across the bed didn't hold any secrets. But despite the scattered piles of clothing and shoes all over the place, it quickly became apparent that the chambers did have an adjacent closet as well. It had been turned into a small book room though, albeit one that seemed to have been emptied very recently. The blank spots amidst old dust were clear. All that remained on the bookshelves were a handful of blank tomes of Essosi paper, Lomas Longstirder's Wonders and Wonders Made by Man - very recently scribed copies by the looks of them – and two or three different copies each of several other works Luwin was familiar with. Maester Munkun's The Dance of the Dragons, Grand Maester Kaeth's Lives of Four Kings, and A True Telling of Unnatural History by Septon Barth. There seemed to be older and new copies of each, their bindings marked green and black respectively, save for the last which also came in red. The ink didn't seem to be as old as the bindings themselves though. Luwin wondered how deteriorated the old ones must have been for the archmaester to procure new ones without bothering to return them.
Having already read all of those titles and being more concerned with immediate matters, Luwin left the closet-turned-library. Back in the room next to the dumbwench was a surprisingly opulent vanity. Not so much in appearance – indeed, Marwyn seemed to favour practicality over design – but it held a surfeit of hair-cutting and shaving tools, as well as the clearest silvered mirror Luwin had ever laid eyes on, though one that seemed rather more prone to distorting reflections than normal. He wondered if Marwyn had anything specifically meant for trimming his vast nose hairs but managed to refrain from digging through the drawers. Barely.
The desk, however, was much more taxing on Luwin's self-control. The glass candle seemed to pull at him where it stood, quiet and gleaming in the distant window light. It was tall and made of black obsidian twisted with sharp edges. Wary from having so recently had his mind played with, Luwin tried to distract himself with everything else on the desk. Some of the items were fairly ordinary – an inkwell, a pen, a jar of quills too for some reason, parchment and paper. Then there were the books. Others than the ones in the library closet. There was Colloquo Votar's Jade Compendium, a thick volume of tales and legends from the east. The book appeared old but well cared for even by the standards of the Citadel. Under it was Maester Thomax's Dragonkin, Being a History of House Targaryen from Exile to Apotheosis, with a Consideration of the Life and Death of Dragons. He'd read it before, but this seemed a different beast than the scribed copy acolytes got access to, even those with more than one copper link like him. Opening it, he confirmed his expectations. The tome had beautifully rendered drawings and sketches, including one of Balerion the Black Dread done in colored inks. Under that book was an old and worn tome titled Finis Coronat Opus – The End Crowns the Work by Gorghan of Old Ghis.
Finally, there was an unadorned and untitled tome which, on further inspection, proved to be a manuscript. A fairly new one too, with barely thirty pages written of what was clearly the first draft of a new writing. The script was more of a scrawl with a multitude of marks, scratches and even entire pages torn off in places. Turning back to the first page, however, told him everything and nothing he needed to know: The Book of Lost Books by Archmaester Marwyn. Luwin put it back down with extra care.
Unfortunately, that left the glass candle as the only thing he hadn't yet inspected. Archmaesters Perestan, Norren and Ryam probably intended for it to show that even with all the knowledge Luwin had acquired, there were still some things that were impossible. Alas, the opposite seemed to have happened. Luwin doubted he'd ever forget the sight it made. The glass candle in the Black Room. That unpleasantly bright light. It did strange things to the few colors it cast into the dark. White was as bright as fresh fallen snow, yellow shone like gold, reds turned to flame, and shadows became so black that they look like holes in the world. More so than even the pitch blackness he'd wallowed in up to that point. It was claimed that when the glass candles burn, sorcerers can see across mountains, seas and deserts, give men visions and dreams and communicate with one another half a world apart. Luwin could well believe it after doing so himself.
Or, perhaps more accurately, having it done to him.
Abruptly, Luwin realised he had both hands outstretched, about to grab onto the candle and squeeze until skin and flesh gave a tribute of lifeblood to the razor-sharp edges. The last beams of reflected light glanced off the fringes of the candle, glinting red on black almost invitingly, like embers amid ash. Disturbed, he pulled away, shook his head and staggered back to the bed, awash with light-headedness not wholly owed to thirst and starvation. If death wanted him for the trespass of watching it at work, it would have to come for him the old fashioned way.
The evening passed in a tide of unease, simmered into dread and then lightened into hope at the sound of the dumbwench heralding the arrival of dinner. He fell on the food and water ravenously, only afterwards noticing the small rolled-up node under the bread bowl. 'Big mess. Will be a while. Here's some food and water. It's not poisoned, I promise – Marwyn.' The idea of poison hadn't even occurred to him. Who would waste such a thing on him? What had the Archmaesters been doing that could reflect so poorly on him? The question drifted away in a flood of soul-shaking relief that Marwyn hadn't forgotten him. Unlike Perestan or Norren or Ryam, he hadn't forgotten him.
It was the only thing that let him rest that night, however fitfully. Despite the sound of the wind from the open window and the wax candles he all but ransacked the room to light everywhere, he almost couldn't manage it. The dark, he shamefully discovered, now terrified him.
He welcomed the hour of the owl, even if none of said birds came to hoot outside his window like they so often did outside the acolyte's dormitories, much to Boar's displeasure. Now, at least, he'd be awake because of routine rather than terror. He always woke up at night for two or three hours before getting a last wink of sleep prior to dawn. Usually he went to the observatory and studied the stars. His bronze link spoke for itself on that habit. Unfortunately, there would be no stargazing tonight. Even if Marwyn suddenly returned to let him out and finally give a bloody explanation.
Which, as a matter of fact, only happened when dawn might have broken were it spring or summer. The hour of the lark.
A heavy lock came undone. Heavy foot stomps on stone floor. The second lock unlatched, opening the bedroom door.
"Luwin, wake up!"
"Maester! You're back! "
"Oh lad, you couldn't sleep a wink, could you?"
"That's not-"
"Just as well, we've work to do!
"Maester, what-"
"Get me that box-no, the other box!"
"Could you please just-?"
"No time, your friends will explain what they can – steady now, I need that! Oh just put it on the bed, you're still too weak, get me the books on the desk, there's a good lad, now here, change into these, quickly!"
'These' turned out to be a thin cloak and a set of blue-grey brigandine armor with a grey outline of a direwolf sewn as a crest. "Maester, these look like-"
"I know, congratulations, lad, you get to live out all your boyhood fantasies of spycraft you never knew you had, you're lucky you have those grey northman's eyes-"
"Archmaester! Please."
Marwyn sighed, stopped in his packing and turned to look up at him seriously. "A bunch of grey rats decided they knew better than everyone up to the high lords themselves and did many naughty things, most recently trying to murder the wife and son of a Warden of the Realm, or so it goes. What happened to you is every one of the rats who wanted you for themselves getting terminally distracted by winter coming south. What's befallen the Citadel is Hightower trying to steal winter's prey before knowing Stark was just days out when his ravens reached here. And what's happening now is me trying to get you out of here alive instead of letting you be cut and dumped in a sewer like every other one of the Hightower's loose ends, real and imagined. Incidentally, you didn't light that glass candle. Neither did I. Magic hasn't come back. Any other questions? No? Good. Now put on that helmet and let me get those straps…"
Luwin was shocked, astonished, horrified and terrified by turns, but before he knew it he was 'helping' Marwyn carry out his wax-sealed box while disguised as a Stark household guard.
It was a box like all the others he'd seen used over the years to transport tomes safely, made of dry wood sealed in wax against the elements. Marwyn guided him out into his antechamber. The large, round room had no flame in the hearth and the stone walls were bare of their usual faded tapestries and ragged maps. Through the door of oak and iron they exited his chambers into the flight of steps that took them down to the vestibule, and finally to the cargo lift at the other end of the Ravenry's north tower. It was crawling with Hightower men everywhere Luwin looked. The Citadel had handled its own affairs for as long as written history, but now it looked less like a learning institution and more like a castle under enemy occupation. The only familiar face was at the end of the vestibule. Hother Umber was checking over a large, tar-coated crate. As soon as they reached him, Marwyn handed him their box, which the tall northman put inside.
"That should be the last of this shipment," Marwyn told the older acolyte. "I'll be leaving you with the good guardsman here, you can figure out directions between yourselves."
"Aye, we will."
Marwyn nodded tersely and went off… somewhere. Luwin abruptly felt soul-stricken. Should he have said goodbye? Was he ever going to see the man again?
"Right then, guardsman," Hother said, as if he didn't see through Luwin's disguise despite all but mothering him for the past seven years and the rest of their roost mates for years before that. "If you'll help me push this onto the lift, we should be done after just one more stop."
Feeling increasingly as if this were a dream, Luwin pretended to 'help' the big man push the tumbrel onto the cargo lift. Then, because the lift was only an iron cage attached to a winch that concealed nothing as it descended, he tried to stand still and tall and look like he belonged in that armor. Hother 'guided' him out of the Ravenry, over the bridge to the other side of the Honeywine and into the acolyte living quarters. Luwin pretended not to recognise what few passing familiar faces were out at that ungodly hour. He also strove not to show his relief at the all-new Hightower guards waving Hother through with nothing but grunting familiarity seen through the torchlight. Even if he still had no idea what he had to be relieved over.
"If you'll follow me, Ser, there's just some personal effects to be getting gone with. Dorm's this way."
Luwin nodded and let himself be led to the dormitory where he'd slept since finishing his time as a scribe.
It was only when the door closed and hid them from view that Hother dropped the pretense and practically lifted him off the floor with the force of his hug, armor and all. "We thought you dead!" The man said gruffly, before dropping him and pulling his helmet off. "Gods be good, it is you. I-we thought – Oh, if those rats hadn't already been fucked half a dozen ways, I'd stick my foot so far up their bungholes that-"
"-You'd waste all our time, that's what," Ryben said from where he was quickly stuffing his nightwear into a heavy satchel. "Much as I'd love the chance to laugh at your face when they don't even feel your little prick going in, we don't have time for your mothering!"
"Oh piss off, Ribs," Hother growled, before turning back to Luwin and fussing over him like the two and thirty years-old mother hen he was. "Already done it for you anyway, satchel's on the bed – no, leave it! You can't be seen with it, already strapped it to mine, I'll bring it. You eat this here sausage, kept it from dinner and here, have this here bread too. It's a day old but I soaked it in a bit of ale, should wash down nice and easy."
"Like he did every night just for you, Luwin, let Mama Whoresbane make it all better."
Hother shoved Ryben hard enough to faceplant on the small patch of floor, to which Ryben retaliated by picking up Luwin's 5 days-old mug of water from the counter beneath the window-side bed and splashing the other acolyte toe to head. Somehow, Luwin was spared most of the spray.
"You fucking cunt!" Hother spluttered, lunging at the smaller man red-faced with rage. "I'll break those twigs you call legs-"
THUNK
"Fucking really?" Boar growled sleepily from the top-right cot, glaring murderously over the knife he'd just stabbed into the sideboard. "You can't keep a lid on it? Fucking now of all times? Where's Mullin?"
"Out in the town," Hother growled, holding Ryben off the floor by his woollen tunic. "Too far away to save this little shit this time." But the man dumped the other acolyte on his arse. "Piss on him anyway, we got important shit to do."
"Nice to see you accept my great wisdom," Ryben grunted, getting to his feet and rubbing his bony arse. "Best we get going. Gotta be there by noon or we don't go nowhere."
Go where?
"Right then, I'd best be leaving first," Boar said, rolling off the bed without the ladder like he always did, landing lightly. They all leaned away and stepped around him as per rote. "Can't have us all seen leaving together."
"What's your game?" Hother asked suspiciously at seeing Boar already dressed for travel, boots and all. "You leaving the Citadel too? You're the only one here that's had nothing to do with any of this mess."
"Maybe, maybe not. I guess you'll just have to wonder." That said, Boar's slender frame all but disappeared underneath his voluminous winter cloak and he left without another word.
Leaving the citadel? Too? This mess? What the hells was going on!?
Luwin bit into his bread and sausage. Viciously. The taste was of bread, ale, meat and a king's feast made with love.
"Right," Hother grunted, glaring at Ryben in case of any smart comments coming. "Now we have to wait a few heartbeats. Ribs, check Boar's bed for any last-minute 'surprises'. Luwin, once you're done I guess you can go ahead and make sure nothing's missing from your pack if you really want."
"Hother, what's been-"
"Not here," the tall man hissed. "Wait till we're outside."
Luwin barely bit back the frustration at being constantly interrupted even now and did as directed. Swallowing the last of the food, he went to look through the bag. Fortunately, everything was there. His ring of links, his medical pastes and powders, the baked clay gnome he'd made for his pottery link was there too, wrapped in cotton wool. So were the starseer parts that had earned Hother his second steel link and Luwin's favorite pen – Hother again, made for his third smithing link and Luwin was still cross that Archmaester Garizon didn't also give him a red gold link for that. Then there were Luwin's prized books he'd copied himself during his time as a scribe. Maester Nicol's Measure of the Days, Archmaester Lyman's Kingdoms of the Sky, Archmaester Fomas' Lies of the Ancients – which he'd probably be reassessing soon – and On Miasmas by Harmon. Below, above and around were his summer clothes and spare underthings, all tightly folded and snugly packed.
Luwin wondered how many times Hother or the others had packed and re-packed his things. He couldn't help but feel touched at their worry and fretting, even if it was too embarrassing to acknowledge it out loud.
Once they confirmed that Boar hadn't left behind any 'surprises' and Hother had his and Luwin's packs strapped to his back, the three went back to where they'd left their cargo.
"Right then, guardsman, if you'll help me seal this, we should be done here," Hother said, handing him an urn of molten tar from the firepit built specifically for the task. "Best not to keep your lord waiting no more."
The books were being sent out of the city. They had to be. Probably by ship. Small wax-sealed boxes packed inside tar-sealed crates was the only way to send books by ship without them starting to wear after the first few days, to say nothing of storms. The Manderly vessel flashed through his mind at the thought. It was a good thing acolytes and scribes were tasked to do this so often because the routine was the only reason he didn't drop or spill anything. Events were rapidly catching up to him. Those that he suffered and those he didn't. Those few he had a say in and those few he wished he did. Whatever happened from here, he didn't need his lead link to know he'd never come back for many years, if ever. There were books he still wanted to read. Friends he'd never again see. He wouldn't even get to say goodbye to little Yandel.
They left immediately after, barring a very brief obstacle in the form of a blustering Hightower sentry that demanded he remove his helmet and thankfully didn't recognise him. They, their cart of books and the mule now pulling said burden then finally cleared the Citadel's gatehouse and the two great Sphinxes on either side of it.
That was where Luwin all but stumbled to a halt if not for Hother nudging him forward and almost sending him falling down the steps. Even so he couldn't help but crane his neck both ways, stricken with shock and dismay and disbelief.
There were heads on spikes on both sides of the road as they exited, like some ghoulish feed for the great sphinxes of stone to feast upon, cast in grisly shadows by the light of the braziers. Heads he knew. Some he knew well. Acolytes Barneby and Henley. Maesters Toman, Gulian, Willifer and two dozens more he couldn't name. And higher than them all were the heads of Archmaesters. Perestan, Norren, Ryam, Vaellyn, Walgrave and Benedict, their faces frozen in horror and pain.
"They had their tongues cut out and then executions were done outside for everyone to see," Ryben murmured from next to him. "Acolytes 'n scribes have been turning up strangled, frozen, washed up or mugged to death in ditches too, dozens of'em."
"Cold seeped in quick," Hother added lowly as he guided the mule from two steps behind, to further enforce Luwin's unbidden mummery. "Those faces will stay stark and fresh for years I reckon."
"I want answers," Luwin hissed as he wrestled with a suddenly rebellious stomach. "Now."
"But Luwin, you haven't asked any questions!" Ryben said.
"Oh shove off and tell him already," Hother muttered with a harsh nudge to the other acolyte's back. "He starved and thirsted and almost died, I'll not have him go mad too."
"Fine," Ryben huffed as he always did when deprived of the word games he always liked to serve the latest gossip with. "Luwin, noticed anything strange before that big test of yours? Maybe an archmaester or five acting like they'd lost half their wits overnight?"
"No… Archmaester Norren seemed distracted when he sealed me in, but he's the seneschal. I assumed there was some disciplinary matter or other weighing on him."
"Here's what we know for sure happened: 'bout a sennight before you went under, the Citadel and Hightower both get ravens from the North. Nothing much happens. But then envoys from the North are spotted coming down by land just two days out, among them the Lord Warden himself. That lights a fire under the Archmaesters' arses and I'd've had a lot of gossip to sell if they'd gotten past the shouting part of that oh so secret meeting that really shouldn't have been held in a multi-story-tall hall with dozens of nooks about to be napping inside. Unfortunately, the Hightower decided to invade the Citadel at the same time and I barely hid away before they took me in as a co-conspirator of whatever those old men had been about. As you just saw with your own eyes, whatever was in those ravens really pissed off the Old Man of the Tower."
Luwin gaped in his helmet, aghast. "…I thought Marwyn was japing!"
"What? What do you mean? What did the Archmaester tell you?"
"A bunch of grey rats tried to murder the wife and son of a Warden of the Realm, is what he said-"
"They sure did," Hother growled from behind like an angry bear. "What all did he tell you?"
Uneasy, Luwin told them what Marwyn had told him.
"They tried to kill the Stark, is what they did. The little Stark. And the Lady Lyarra! Those fucking cunts! I'll kill'em! I'll drag them from their seven hells and make a blood eagle out of 'em!"
"Quiet!" Ryben punched Hother's arm and tugged Luwin forward again. "Don't make another scene!"
"Fuck off, Ribs!" But he lowered his voice and they resumed their trek. "'Don't make a scene' he says. Did you forget earlier? Woulda' been worse if I didn't lose my head. I ain't made no maiden vows or anythin' else, no matter how long I've been away from my home in the North. Lord Stark is still my liege lord and he'll stay my liege lord till the day I die."
"Well your liege lord wants to get the rest of his business done all quiet like, methinks," Ryben said snidely. "So put a sock in it."
"What else has been going on?" Luwin asked before they really got going. "Is this crate bound for the merman ship?"
"You know about that? What else has Marwyn told you?"
"He didn't, I saw it out the window of his room."
"He doesn't have windows in his rooms," Hother said, and how did he know? "I helped him pack his things."
"I mean his bedchamber."
"He let you in there?" Both of them looked mighty shocked, Ryben especially. "Fuck, he must really like you, Luwin."
"Locked me in, more like."
"Good think he did," Hother grumbled as they followed the cobbled road downriver. "Half the boys in the ditches didn't know half as many of those grey rats as you did. Hells, even some of them up on those spikes held fewer ears than you did."
Luwin was torn between horror at his situation and being touched that neither of his companions thought to question his innocence in light of those facts. He cleared his throat. "Ahem. So, the crate?"
"The last of many we packed over the past few days and the latest of plenty more to leave by sea," Ryben answered as they crossed the bridge to the Iron Isle where peddled all the smiths. "While you were getting done in, we've been spending half our time packing books to be shipped off. We and a bunch of others, about a dozen of us in all. We must've packed and hauled tomes and scrolls for every last subject known to man, and then some."
"First men or northmen, all of us," Hother said from behind, voice almost masked by the creak of the wheels on cobbles. "None of us vowed or chained. None of us with fewer than two silver links."
Luwin didn't need to have the implications explained to him. "And the other half of your time?"
"Crawling up and down the docks, the Apothecary Quarter, the Thieves Market and Ragpicker's Wynd looking for poorly defined dusts, draughts and random ingredients. Here, maybe you can make better sense of it than we did." So saying, Ryben dug through a pocked in his cloak and handed over a surprisingly thick roll of paper leafs. They were held together at one corner with an odd metal loop that was needle-thin and went through all the sheets at two different points, keeping them securely in place. A clever device.
The contents were nowhere near as clever. The title 'Medical Knowledge Test for Healer Aspirants' was a poor fit for what was effectively a list of poorly described substances and reagents. Colorless acid with pungent smell capable of eating through skin – he didn't know about colorless, but that sounded otherwise like stomach acid. White salt-like grain dust that draws water from air and is capable of preventing the formation of ice – he didn't know this one, normal salt already did all of that, trick question perhaps? Although there was a rarer form of salt used in preserves, so it could be that. Colorless liquid that smells of pear drops and is used in glues and solvents – probably ester. The list went on and one and on and barely half had been marked found. Luwin supposed it wasn't a terrible way to assess knowledge of mixtures or alchemy, but the so-called test seemed a tad too focused for his tastes. Equally non-specific as well – most of the descriptions on the list fit multiple reagents or ingredients, some partially and some fully.
Luwin made a show of studying the papers while they walked the rest of the way, but his mind was on other things. Chiefly on recent events, deductions and implications. The messages from the North were clearly incriminating in some sinister fashion. Their timing so close to Stark's arrival suggested that whatever response he had in mind was time sensitive. The Hightower's abrupt, messy and belated pre-emptive action spoke either of punishment… or of covering up and cutting loose ends that might have incriminated him. Or both. Or the belief that others would hold him responsible for whatever it was regardless of reality. That he did something so overt and messy spoke to the Hightower not seeing any better alternative, which meant that Stark had backed his messages and later actions with no small amount of external leverage. Lord Leyton Hightower must have sent out a veritable storm of ravens to fight it. Luwin couldn't think of any other reason why the Isle of Ravens would be so much more sparsely populated than normal.
It was after they crossed the bridge from the Iron Isle to the Wide that they were waylaid by two hooded figures, one of whom he didn't know. The other one was carrying a metal rod in his hand, pulled a wheeled chest with the other and turned out to be Marwyn himself. Ryben and Hother were surprised at seeing them but kept their peace.
"So tell me, boy," the archmaester said as they fell into step. "Figured everything out yet?"
"…There was a faction in the citadel led by a number of archmaesters. They conspired for goals they considered important enough to justify the assassination of Great House first-liners. Lord Stark discovered it, which suggests his prior maester was involved. The nature and timing of his response suggests he thought the Hightowers might also have been involved. Or perhaps he thought they'd purge the issue to avoid being incriminated, as indeed they seem to have done. Finally, whatever may or may not be the truth of the matter, Stark seemingly has enough leverage to force concessions of his own regardless."
"Sounds like a theory. Now, can you guess what you missed?"
"… I wouldn't have missed it if I could, would I?"
"Ha!" Marwyn's laugh was a grunting as every other sound he ever made. "Listen boys and listen well. Maesters are the principal historians of the Seven Kingdoms. It gives a new twist to the common saying that history is written by the victors – the victors are already historians. Hightower's purge was a total mess and beyond excessive. Why kill so many boys and men? So many without a chain even? Obedience to the hierarchy of the Citadel is to be expected. To become a maester one needs to conform to the thought of the archmaesters, and probably as well to their political opinions. Rare is an acolyte that doesn't parrot all the views of his teachers. The best servants of the Citadel might hope to serve in the finest castle, and even to be promoted archmaester, of course they'll kiss arse and suck whatever cock will get them there! The Citadel has the privilege of the assignations. A maester not well trusted would spend his life on a mountain in the Vale or at Bear Island or at the Wall. Why do you think Aemon Targaryen is freezing his balls off at the Wall? He should have been Grand Maester but instead they sent him off to the edge of the world. Great houses will always be served by the favorite pupils of the archmaesters, but none of this says there is a deliberate conspiracy or indoctrination."
"So there wasn't a conspiracy?" Ryben asked incredulously. "With all due respect, Archmaester, that's a crock of shit."
"So certain are you, boy? When you don't know shit besides what I told you? Or what you heard from random mouths who heard it from other mouths? Say there was something those fools with their heads on spikes were really after. A better future. A world led by mind and reason rather than force of arms. Peace upon the realm. The elimination of the supernatural or some other political cause. A process of selection of like-minded people could suffice for all of it, it doesn't take some secret cult! If it were just that, the Citadel wouldn't be so successful discouraging children like you from coming to me to study magic. They'd only egg you on! All it takes is being denied a link or three by the archmaesters or have your chain taken and anyone will fall in line."
"None of that means there wasn't a conspiracy," Hother pointed out. "And Lord Stark acted fair certain there was."
"I never denied there was one either, though notice how you call to authority precisely as I said you would, not questioning the provided truth. It's just the choice of authority that's different."
"Don't go accusing my lord of lying," Hother said with a scowl.
"I didn't, I implied it at most. I accused you of credulity."
"Maester," Luwin sighed, breaking in before they got carried away. "Was there a conspiracy or not?"
"Who's to say there wasn't? Who's to say there still isn't? What if Ebrose the Healer was in it? You think Old Leyton would suspect him after he delivered every one of his children? What if the Hightower was in on it himself? What if he still is? What if the Faith is involved too? 'The Oldtown Triad acts in lockstep,' isn't that the saying? How would we know? How can we know the people executed aren't all scapegoats? And even if it's been crushed, how do we know it won't come back in a decade? The dead tell no tales, but they held sway over the hearts and minds of old and young alike for decades. If there's a deliberate conspiracy at the Citadel, it might exist at the level of the archmaesters and at that level only. You'd be mad to think every maester leaves the Citadel with a secret agenda. The archmaesters themselves are never all on the same page. The grey rats are not the grey sheep, and there are many who are neither. The real question is this: could enough Archmaesters and their yes-men really coordinate to manipulate the whole realm, and manufacture murders? Marriages? Regicides perhaps?"
The questioned loomed over them, heavy and damning.
"… Could they?" Luwin finally asked when no one else would, thinking of maesters and their hold on all ravens and Lords that seldom checked who read their missives and how and when and why.
"Old Leyton Hightower obviously thought Rickard Stark believed so," Maryn shrugged, maddeningly. "Just like the remaining archmaesters are sure I was one of the grey rats who sold out the rest to save my own hide. Not that they had the balls to say so when they kicked me out."
"They what!?" Luwin almost didn't realise that outrage was his own.
"They did that?" Hother grunted from behind. "Cockless fucks."
"'You broke your vows of political neutrality' was their choice of nonsense," Marwyn said with a vague wave.
"Maester!" Luwin cried, so aghast he forgot the role he was playing. "They can't do that to you!"
Marwyn pat him fondly on the hand. "You're a good boy, Luwin. Now do try to recall you're a Stark guard right now, hmm?"
"Maester…"
"You're also still missing the obvious, my lad, but that's alright. If it's you, I can wait."
"Or you could just tell me for once," Luwin groused, pretending not to notice the meaningful looks Ryben was sending the archmaester and him.
"But then I'd be telling you what to think, not teaching you how to think for yourself. Here's a hint though – I don't ask near as many rhetorical question as I seem."
Luwin blinked, then lost himself in picking over everything that had been spoken over the past few days, over and over again.
He didn't emerge from his distraction until he heard dogs barking. Shaking his head, Luwin lifted his eyes from the cobbled road to see dogs bringing fetch sticks to the lifelike statues dotting the grounds of the Quill and Tankard island inn in front of them. And ahead of them, waiting to meet them at the foot of the bridge, were two familiar men finally distinguishable in the faint light of the late winter dawn. Boar. And Mullin.
Mullin, who stood amidst a gaggle of young and unfamiliar acolytes who looked tense and terrified as if their lives had ended and the broad-shouldered, solid man was the only reason they hadn't bolted like the scared rabbits they were.
"Lord Stark didn't shy away from making use of his leverage," Luwin asked Marwyn as the group finally noticed their arrival. "Did he?"
"He did not."
"Those boxes and crates, the books and scrolls inside them, they weren't chosen at random, were they?"
"No they were not. I provided the core list, though truthfully Hother saw to most of it."
Luwin waited to see if the other man would say anything, but he didn't. The silence coming from him was as meaningful as the realisation that he had just achieved. "Lord Stark means to build his own Citadel," Luwin said, throat going dry. "Doesn't he?"
"That's what I like about you, Luwin. You have such wonderful common sense. If only you didn't misuse it to dismiss everything outside your narrow frame of reference! Now come on. Let's go and meet your new patron, shall we? Before the Hightower does something rash again. Like maybe decide he can live with murdering Lord Stark after all, now that said peer of his has all but guaranteed that every other kingdom will do the same as him by winter's end."
They went.
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone