by Wilf Jones
‘And how is it I didn’t get to hear about this?’ Seama directed the question at the keeper of the Chronicle, who gave him a wry grin.
‘Apparently you had too much on your plate already, Seama, what with your injuries and your studies. That right Master?’
‘Yes it is.’ Waldin seemed peeved that Holander felt the need to confront him. ‘Seama’s health is much more important to me than you suggest. Until we knew more there was no need to trouble him.’
Seama considered Waldin’s face for a moment and then decided they were being unkind. Waldin carried a great deal of responsibility both as Master of the College and Chief Officer of the Council, and to be fair he handled both of his jobs better than anyone else could have managed one, Seama included. He nodded briefly.
‘Good point. I was, and am very busy at the moment. So, Gosbert, what news did you bring?’
‘I got the information from Fel Awdrey,’ Gosbert began, ‘But to be honest the situation wasn’t a secret anyway. Ever since King Sirl fell ill the Prime Minister’s been trying to promote this ah… ‘Open Government’ thing – basically it requires the Cabinet to put everything before the Assembly before they can make any sort of decision. As far as I can tell, all it means is that nothing gets done very quickly.’
Seama nodded. ‘You’ll find Sirl’s keen on the idea too. He insists it goes back to the Founding but somehow got lost along the way. Not everyone’s so enthusiastic though. Some people think all this fairness and openness will lead to disorder.’
‘Well I’m thankful for it – it’s a lot easier gathering information.’
‘And the information is…?’
‘Aegarde is threatening war.’
‘War? With Gothery? Has Agwis gone mad?’
Waldin intervened. ‘As it happens, Seama, yes he has. Or at least that’s the story his odious son’s been putting about. Sight believes it’s a lie and actually Agwis is under house arrest. We suspect drugs were used. The Aegardean Senate seems to have accepted that Agwis is demented, dangerous even. They made Athoff regent and Athoff, now exactly where he wants to be, has sent an ultimatum to Sirl and is currently busy raising an army.’
‘But the regions won’t go for it, will they? Not for a war with Gothery, there’s too much trade at stake. What does this ultimatum have to say?’
‘Well Seama,’ Gosbert leapt back in, keen to tell the story himself given he had travelled such along way to tell it, ‘It’s all to do with The Black Company. They’re criminals, a hundred or more – almost a small army – and led by four sorcerers, if you can believe such a thing. Past month or so they’ve been raiding villages in the Skirt – over on the Aegardean side of the border, just north of the Saddle if you know it?’
Seama smiled and nodded. ‘I think we’re all familiar with the geography.’
‘Well I’m not sure Athoff is. He’s decided these raiders are based in Gothery.’
‘Ridiculous. What do they do: swing down the cliffs on ropes? Utter nonsense.’
‘Exactly. But Athoff’s looking for an excuse. He says that if Gothery won’t do anything about this Black Company, then Aegarde will. Either Gothery pays reparation and executes the ringleaders, or Athoff’ll bring an army into Gothery and see to them himself. It’s all a ruse. He’s been making a case for claiming-back the plateau for months now – keeps bashing on about how Banya stole the land from Aegarde to start with.’
‘But that was more than a thousand years ago – and it’s not true anyway. Banya bought the land with The Oath.’
‘Well you may know your history, Seama, but there won’t be too many who’ll care to remember it. Not on the Aegardean side anyway. ‘A thousand years of insult’ he calls it. What with all this new violence and terror, he reckons now’s the time for Aegarde to put things right. He’s been making speeches about it up and down the country. Not that he’s any real interest in history of course. What he’s after is Gothery industry and know-how and the wealth that comes of it. He’s had enough of Aegarde being the poor neighbour.’
‘For national pride he threatens war? There you have a measure of the man. But does he really think he could win?’
‘Well that depends on the size of his army and how Gothery can respond. Sorry, a bit obvious. What I mean is Gothery’s in a bit of a state just at present. It’s hard to explain why, but people aren’t happy, not with their bosses, not with the authorities. We’re having real trouble just trying to keep order. There were riots in Dreffield last week, machinery wrecked, looting. Of course they sent the army in and it may be they were a little heavy-handed. I’m ashamed to say there were some deaths – I’ll not say murder, as nothing’s been proven.’
‘But this is terrible, Gosbert,’ Waldin put in, clearly upset, ‘One cannot deny Gothery has a history of public dispute – the remonstrations, the rallies, all common enough. But riots Gosbert? How has it come to this?’
‘Well that’s the mystery isn’t it? Everywhere you look there’s something going on. All sorts of different complaints to start off with but all leading to the same result: trouble on the streets. It’s become the fashion of the day.’
‘What’s the government to say about this?’
‘Not very much, Seama. The general idea seems to be that if they ignore it for long enough, things’ll eventually settle down.’
‘Great plan. And what are they doing about this ultimatum? Ignoring that too?’
‘Mostly they’re just arguing among themselves. And that was the point I was trying to make. With the country in such a mess, and the government all but paralysed, well, it’s all good news for Athoff’s chance of success. He’ll be reckoning up just now how few soldiers he’s going to need. Ten thousand? Five thousand? He must think he can win quite easily.’
Seama took a moment to think it through. Athoff’s end of it could wait a while. In Aegarde building an army was a long process. Nothing could happen very quickly. In the East, however, Mador Bhadrada was not so handicapped. The King of Pars had standing armies to command and he wasn’t the sort of man to ponder his options for too long. He would not be happy with the thought of Athoff Ringsøyr some day soon sitting on Sirl’s throne in the Palace of Astoril; and he’d not be at all happy with the thought of ten thousand Aegardean soldiers sitting easy on ground only the breadth of the Hypodedicus away from the Medean Part. It seemed very obvious to Seama what the Partain King would do.
‘To secure his own borders against a possible threat from Aegarde, Mador’s going to invade Gothery first.’
‘That is how the Council see it,’ Peveril agreed, ‘We expect there to be movement before the end of the month.’
‘Now look, I don’t want to sound overly dramatic,’ Waldin said, ‘but we are on the brink of disaster. Unless we do something, and soon, the whole continent will be at war: Masachea on the Partain border, Athoff threatening everyone from the west, and Mador, no doubt reluctantly, planning to take Astoril before the month is out. And right at the centre of it all Gothery: fine, innocent and vulnerable Gothery, likely to suffer most. We cannot have it gentlemen. Gothery is the future we need; Gothery is the progress we have been nurturing for a thousand years. We need her intact and independent and strong, and not some plaything of chaos.’
Seama was both surprised and impressed by the passion in Waldin’s words but he wasn’t so sure of the analysis. ‘Chaos?’ he said, ‘You use the word as if it could explain everything. I don’t believe it. This is no coincidence. It is strategy, from one end of the continent to the other. Though for what, or for why or by whom, I cannot think.’
‘Coincidence or strategy,’ said Peveril, ‘it makes little difference. The Council has decided it will take action. And the start of it is keeping Mador within his own borders. That achieved we may then turn our attention upon Athoff and the Aegardean succession.’
Holander, who had been listening silently, more concerned with Sight’s seeming agitation as he twitched and shivered in the armchair, spoke up at last.
‘That’s just the way The Council always thinks. It’s all politics: how to keep things stable; go in at the head of government, control the state and the state will control the people.’
‘You speak as if we do these things for our own benefit.’ Peveril was annoyed. ‘What should we do? The people of Asteranor need peace first and foremost – it is our job to provide for that.’
‘That’s not what I mean. What are you going to do about this Black Company? Leave them to get on with it while our lot are ponceing about in Garassa and Ayer? Chattering with Kings and ministers isn’t going to get anything sorted. We need to get our hands dirty.’
Aiden looked as if the notion of ‘getting his hands dirty’ was something deeply unpleasant and to be avoided at all cost. ‘We cannot solve all the ills of the world but we will give thought to the Black Company when Sight has spoken. Help can be sent. For now what is important is setting Seama on his way—’
‘But what about the book?’ It burst out of him. As Holander and Aiden crossed swords Seama had become distracted. There was a feeling building in him much like the head-spinning, gut-wrenching urgency the summons had provoked a few weeks ago, but all of it hung upon the word strategy. In that moment Seama understood they were missing something vital, that there was something critically important he had to do. He had no idea what it might be but was strangely convinced The Song of Ages held the key.
Waldin pounced as though he had been waiting for the objection. ‘The book is a book, Seama, nothing more than that.’ Waldin looked around the room, challenging them all, ‘Does anyone here think Seama’s book more important than acting to prevent a war and all the despair and agony that will bring?’
‘It’s not my book, Waldin, it’s Haslem’s. The same Haslem who created Gothery in the first place. The same Haslem who more or less invented this notion of progress you hold to. The same Haslem, just in case you’ve forgotten, who gave us our greatest spells. From what I’ve read so far, Waldin, the Song of Ages may well look to the past but Haslem’s message is all about that future you’ve been looking for. Our future. We need to find out what it means.’
‘Really Seama, the book has been sitting on a shelf in the library for nearly a thousand years – what makes it so important today rather than yesterday or five years from now? We have work to do. Mysteries can wait.’
It was so annoying. Seama felt as if he might explode like a Besma Ball. Obviously there was sense in what Waldin had to say but he just knew it was all wrong. Something about the Song screamed out for attention and nothing the Master could say would quiet it. ‘Look Waldin, the book wasn’t burned a thousand years ago, the book didn’t summon me five years from n…’
‘NO!’
It was Sight. He had thrust forwards, his hands gripping the arms of the chair white-knuckled. ‘You cannot!’ he cried, ‘You must not!’ He stood abruptly, quivering in outrage, his eyes fixed on a horror they could not see, sudden tears pouring down his cheeks. ‘No!’ he demanded; ‘No, no,’ he sobbed. He pushed blindly away from Holander’s reaching arms, staggered across the room as if trying to run away from the pictures in his mind, and then with a final wordless cry he collapsed. What Sight had seen had been too much. Far too much.
BLACK COMPANY
Huaresh, Eastern Valdesia (The Skirt) 3057.7.18
‘You must keep them quiet. You must! I can’t do anything about the noise you’re all making.’ Signoren Bassalo tried hard to keep the panic from his voice but there was so little time. Another baby began to skrike and several of the smaller children were whimpering. ‘Andras, I’ll have to start now or they’ll be on us before I get a word spoken. You’ll have to do something about the noise. Get the babies under the stage at least.’
‘I’ll try, Signoren, but won’t it make them cry all the more?’
‘It’s what can be heard outside that counts, not in. I have to go.’
Andras nodded. ‘It’s the only way. Do it right for us, Signoren, we know you can.’
The Signoren could think of no reply. He shrugged, took one last look at the women and children and the old men all crowded into the spaces between the tables and benches, cast his eyes over the children’s pictures that covered the walls and then quickly hurried out through the front door.
Outside the schoolhouse everything seemed as normal. It was a pleasant summers’ day of blue sky and high, white cloud. His newly painted cottage over by the brook looked prettier than ever: pink walls, climbing honeysuckle, a multitude of flowers bright in his garden. Further on was Claudia Bera’s tiny white house with its weedy vegetable patch. He’d been meaning to get the children to help her tidy up a bit: she was at least eighty now and marvellous for her age but some things were beyond her. Not that she’d admit it. They more or less had to frog-march her to the schoolhouse. ‘No black devil’s having me out of my home,’ she declared and would have stayed put if they’d let her.
Of course there was no one in the village street that curved away beyond the white house. Up past the smithy at the top end a handful of young men had been set to let fly some arrows and then run off into the trees as fast as they could. Deeper into the village the others were hidden up between the houses on the forest side, behind sheds and water-butts, or crouching in the long grass along the brook’s edge; maybe forty all told. According to Serrio and his brother, the Black Company had left Ardache on the road for Huaresh more than two hours past. The brothers had ridden hard while the Company had dallied but still they could not have gained more than an hour. The last report that came in only five minutes ago said at least thirty frighteningly well-armed men were barely a mile away, looting the Gunez farm. When they tired of doing that they would come. Old man Gunez’ face when he heard the news was black with fury, his sons were cursing.
Time to get on with it. He couldn’t start the spell too soon: every minute he could fool them before his strength ran out would be important. He could manage three hours or maybe a little more. All of the wealth of the village had been spirited off into the woods with the able-bodied or was hidden here in the schoolhouse. It would be hard to find. The cottages and houses, emptied of anything worth stealing, deserted by their owners, would be no use to them. They might set fires but surely they would leave.
The Signoren walked briskly to the rear of the schoolhouse and climbed rather less briskly up the rickety bell tower he’d had built twenty years before. Of his fifty years a full twenty-five had been spent as teacher to the children of the village and of the woods and fields for miles around. He helped out with some healing along the way whenever old Carva’s herbs wouldn’t do the trick but he hardly ever had cause to use his power. The schooling of Errensea had made him half a wizard but he was never comfortable with magic and had mostly abandoned the art. There was something about wizardry that made him feel isolated when all he had ever wanted was to be a part of everything.
And now the ‘everything’ he so treasured was under immense threat. A gang of cutthroats had been terrorising the region for almost a month now and today their path of violence and destruction would lead to his beloved Huaresh. From the top of the tower Bassalo could view the whole village. He could make out the young archers standing in the shadow of Rudy’s workshop, could see the white, chalky road disappearing under the cool arches of the Twelve Oaks Inn. The beer barrels had been broken less than half an hour before at Andras’ insistence. They must give the Black Company nothing to stay for. Some had argued they should let the Company have all the loot it could find while the people hid safe in the forest – but that had been tried before. In Reno, in Perdesh, according to reports, the Company had not been distracted by the lure of property. Their first intention and delight was all in killing and torture and destruction; the blood
-hunt had merely fired their enthusiasm and ferocity. And that lust gave Andras the basis of his plan. They would give the Company someone to chase and they would try to make it seem the village had been abandoned. The men who would be doing the running were mostly confident their woodcraft would see them clear and safe. The women and children and the infirm could not run and so they would have to disappear from sight. And that disappearance would be down to the skills and strength of a fifty year-old half-wizard who had not tried anything so difficult for more than quarter of a century.
It was an uncomfortable perch, squeezed in beside the bell, but he had to put discomfort to one side. He began with an exercise to clear his mind. There was no room for doubt or fear; he must box up his memories, his emotions, the distractions of his body, all of his hopes for the future. All he wanted inside his head was the schoolhouse, the field alongside and the words of the spell he intended to use.
The schoolhouse was at the edge of the village, the road curved away from it, the brook circled behind. If the schoolhouse had not been built on this field no one bar the farmer would ever walk there. If he could hide the schoolhouse from common sight they would all be saved.
The noise of cheering or jeering from the other end of the village reached him. He began the chant.
It was so important to keep it going, to make sure the words never varied, to release his power into the spell in a steady trickle. Too much too soon and they would be lost. And at the same time he mustn’t let the boundaries wander: a shimmering in the air would draw attention; the edges must be clear and exact. He knew the schoolhouse and the path to it so well after twenty-five years, he knew the field beside it. He would overlay the one with the other.
