by Stan Nichols
A short bout of discreet throat-clearing made his visitors’ presence known. The Prince lifted his head and blinked at them. A degree of recognition dawned and he got up, clutching the back of a chair to steady himself, as though he were a much older man. They refrained from assisting, unsure of his reaction if they laid hands on him, and instead waited with heads bowed.
On his feet, puffing, the Prince said, ‘I’m glad you dropped by,’ as if this wasn’t a long-standing regular audience.
‘The honour is all ours, your Highness,’ Talgorian responded tactfully. He discreetly nudged Bastorran, who mumbled a similar platitude.
‘There are weighty issues to be pondered,’ Melyobar declared.
‘Indeed there are,’ Talgorian agreed, hopeful of a rational exchange for once.
‘Do you know,’ the Prince confided, ‘two or three days ago I thought I had him.’
‘Who?’ Bastorran asked before Talgorian could stop him.
Melyobar looked affronted. ‘Who? Death, naturally. Who else?’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course, Highness.’
‘It was in a village my troopers came across in the… south somewhere, I think,’ Melyobar related. ‘The peasants were harbouring him, I’m
sure
of it. Not that I was there myself, obviously. I’m no fool! But would they give him up? Would they hell! He’d coached them in falsehood. Lies come to him as naturally as truth. More so. He’s had greater trade with lies.’ He glazed into some kind of reverie.
‘What happened, Majesty?’ Talgorian gently prompted.
‘Happened? They persisted in their refusal to surrender him, that’s what. Claimed they knew nothing about him. The sneaks! So I sent an order that had them put to him.’
His visitors were puzzled. ‘Sir?’ Bastorran queried.
‘I had them put to him. You see? Put them to
Death
. See? Eh?’ He laughed at his little joke.
They politely echoed his mirth with puny chuckles and thin smiles.
‘He escaped me that time,’ the Prince went on more gravely, half to himself, ‘and it set me to thinking. Were my precautions sufficiently strong? Was simply running from him enough? Could I improve on my defences?’ His sickly chest swelled, he eyed them triumphantly. ‘Yes, I could!’ He moved to the covered object. Grasping a honey-coloured bell rope hanging alongside, he gave it a dramatic yank. The drape rose, lifted by a counterweight and slender wires.
A sizeable cage was revealed. It was robustly built, highly decorated and golden in colour. It may have
been
gold, as befitted the property of a royal personage. But Talgorian suspected it was iron overlaid with gold leaf. Its entrance stood open, the sturdy door held above by powerful spring hinges.
‘Well?’ the Prince demanded.
‘It’s… unbelievable,’ the Envoy whispered.
Bastorran concurred by nodding, but forgot to close his mouth.
‘It’s
strong
,’ Melyobar enthused, wrapping his fist around one of the bars. ‘Built by master craftsmen from the toughest materials. And it has spells to fortify it.’ He looked at them. ‘You can see its function, surely?’
A frozen moment slowly thawed.
Talgorian ventured, ‘My congratulations, sir. A remarkably ingenious hiding place.’
‘Yes, you’ll be unreachable in that, Highness,’ Bastorran said, following the other’s lead. ‘Perfectly safe.’
‘What?’
He frowned at them.
They waited, tongues leaden, expressions fixed.
‘For two supposedly intelligent men that’s…
asinine
!’ the Prince announced, staring. Then he laughed. It was a high-pitched mocking bray, almost good-natured. ‘It’s not for
me
, it’s for
him
!’ He snatched up a sheaf of papers and rolled them as he spoke. ‘Should Death catch up with me, despite all my efforts, he’ll be snared. It has a trip, see?’ He swatted at the cage with the rolled-up papers. The door instantly fell and snapped shut with an echoing clang. ‘Clever, eh?’
‘Very,’ Talgorian managed, lamely.
‘There’s just one problem.’
‘Your Highness?’
‘What do you think I should bait it with?’
11
Dulian Karr said, ‘I’ll tell you what really happened.’
Reeth, Kutch and the patrician bumped along in Domex’s covered wagon. It was pulled by a pair of dappled grey carthorses, with Caldason at the reins. Kutch sat next to him and Karr rode behind in the body of the wagon, his back against a heap of folded sacks. They had travelled through the night, avoiding main roads, heading south towards Valdarr. Now dawn was brightening the sky and they had fallen to discussing Bhealfa’s rulers.
‘Go on,’ Kutch urged, eager for gossip.
‘Many stories have been told about King Narbetton’s fate,’ Karr reminded them, taking up the thread with a hint of relish. ‘The official version is that he perished during the chaos when Gath Tampoor drove Rintarah from this island and made it their own, about twenty years ago. Some say he died in the fire that destroyed the old palace. Others that he sacrificed his life heroically, leading a desperate defence against the invading forces. Or took poison, in despair at his kingdom passing from the hands of one occupier to another. They’re all lies. Even his state funeral was a sham.’
Caldason glanced round at him. ‘You’re saying he’s still alive?’
‘Yes… and no. As they withdrew, Rintarahian sorcerers subjected Narbetton to some kind of magical assault. A parting shot, you might say, on a par with polluting wells and sowing the fields with salt. It could have been this that tilted the mind of his only son, Melyobar. Anyway, whatever they did, it left the King in a kind of unconscious state. A condition neither living nor dead, and one in which he apparently never ages. Whether the Rintarahians intended to do this, or if it was a bungled assassination, nobody knows.’
‘You ever heard of such a thing, Kutch?’ Caldason asked.
The boy looked surprised at having his opinion solicited, and not a little pleased. ‘Oh. Well, yes, in a way. There are somnambulist spells, of course, and certain glamours that can put their subjects into trances. But the ones I know about sound mild compared to this, and they can be broken by any able practitioner.’
‘This one can’t,’ Karr replied, ‘for all the grand sorcerers in Melyobar’s service. Though rumour suggests the Prince may not be as distressed about it as you might think. After all, his father’s resuscitation would rob him of his power; and there’s reason to believe he never had much liking for the old man anyway. But it’s a measure of Melyobar’s befuddlement that he’s refused to adopt the title of King. Maybe he expects his father to recover. Who can say?’
‘Do you know where Narbetton is now?’
‘No one does for sure, but the betting has to be somewhere in Melyobar’s absurd travelling palace.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Caldason said.
Karr smiled. ‘Just a perk of belonging to the political classes. The story’s quite well known throughout the administration.’
‘Laying the facts before the people might make Rintarah even less popular with Bhealfans. Wouldn’t that suit our present masters?’
‘Yes, but it would also have everyone asking why Gath Tampoor hasn’t released the King from his plight.’
‘Why haven’t they?’
‘Perhaps they can’t, even with all the powerful magic an empire has at its command. Or it could be that it suits them better to deal with Narbetton’s mad, pliable son. Though as the Prince grows more unpredictable that might not last forever. They’ve certainly benefited from the years of secret legal wrangling over the constitutional implications.’
Kutch had been listening intently. ‘The kind of magic you’re talking about would have been elementary for the Founders. There are eve
n scholars who say the Dreamtime itself was actually a great spell, an enchantment that turned reality into a kind of illusion, in which everything was malleable. It’s thought the Founders could make whatever they wanted just…
be
, like in dreams.’ He grinned. ‘Well, some believe that. There are varying opinions about everything to do with the Founders.’
‘But it wasn’t Founder magic that bound Narbetton,’ Karr said. ‘So shouldn’t it be possible to undo it?’
‘In theory. But there are many strands of magic, and sometimes a spell can be hard to lift because it sort of jams the balance.’ He turned to Caldason. ‘Like your -’ Kutch was about to say problem ‘- people,’ he quickly substituted. ‘Your
people
.’ Caldason glared at him. ‘The Qaloch and their magic, which we spoke about, remember,’ Kutch gushed, ‘and how it was… different from… er…’ Blushing, he felt as though he’d leapt from a hot skillet into a hotter fire.
Stony-faced, Caldason rescued him. ‘It’s true that the Qaloch have a different attitude to magic, and a different relationship with it. Unlike you, we don’t see it as a measure of status.’
Karr didn’t seem to notice Kutch’s near-gaffe, or he chose to ignore it. ‘How strange,’ he mused.
With some misgiving, Kutch asked, ‘Why are people so prejudiced against the Qaloch?’ For a moment he thought he’d made things worse.
But Caldason didn’t chide him. ‘Maybe a Qalochian’s not best placed to answer that. We tend to see the boot, not the reason it’s aimed at our faces.’
‘I think part of it is guilt,’ Karr volunteered. ‘After all, the Qaloch were Bhealfa’s original inhabitants.’
‘That’s just a legend, isn’t it?’ Kutch said.
‘Not to my people,’ Caldason tautly informed him.
Again, Kutch wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
‘Whatever the truth of it,’ Karr asserted, ‘there’s no disputing that Qalochians have been disenfranchised. During my lifetime their last enclaves have gone completely, thanks to Bhealfa’s appetite for land.’
‘It wasn’t just greed for our space,’ Caldason told him. ‘Look around you, Bhealfa has room to spare.’ His manner had begun to be brooding.
’What else would you attach the bigotry to?’
‘Our independence. There’s little taste for those who don’t conform. The fact that we’re a warrior race doesn’t sit comfortably either. The first thing put into our hand when we enter this world is a sword. Our ideal is to leave it holding one.’ What might have been a wistful glow briefly mellowed the hardness in his eyes. ‘But if you want to know the real reason we’re shunned, it’s simply because we’re different.’
‘People who hate you for that must be stupid,’ Kutch decided.
‘Never underestimate an enemy. Often it’s not brains they lack, it’s scruples.’
‘Well said,’ Karr offered.
For the past few hours they had been travelling through a landscape of abundant trees and foliage. Now the terrain grew sparser. Ahead, the road forked, with a rougher track going towards the west.
‘Turn here,’ Karr instructed.
Caldason frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Just a small diversion.’
‘I thought you were in a hurry to get back.’
‘I am. But we’re still at least two days from Valdarr. We need water and provisions, and we can get them not far from here.’
‘How far?’
‘A couple of hours at most. Besides, there’s something I want you to see.’
‘I’m not keen on surprises, Patrician.’
‘You might find this one enlightening. Trust me, there won’t be much of a delay.’
Caldason said nothing and made the turn.
The road they followed was potholed and overgrown with weeds. On either side the country was more scrub than grassland.
Above an hour later they came to the beginnings of a moor. There were clumps of heather and outcroppings of bleached rock, choked by moss. The few trees were infirm and skeletal. Distant stretches of marsh glistened in the frail sunlight, and the smell of rotting vegetation was in the air.
As they topped a low hill, Kutch remarked, ‘This is a godsfor-xsaken place.’
‘A location nobody else wanted,’ Karr agreed. ‘It was all they could find.’
‘Who?’ Caldason said.
Karr pointed. ‘You’re about to find out.’
They were coming to a small, shallow valley, housing a modest cluster of buildings. These conformed to no single style of architecture; a ramshackle appearance was all most of them had in common. Alongside the shacks, lodges and barns there were several thatched round houses, not that different to those Reeth had grown up in.
The settlement, or whatever it was, had no protective walls, ditches or watchtowers. People could be seen; carrying loads, leading animals, conversing in groups.
Karr knelt in the back of the wagon, watching over the others’ shoulders. ‘Pull up. There’re one or two things you should know before we get there.’
The horses came to a ponderous halt, tails swishing, as Caldason tugged on the reins. ‘What’s going on, Karr?’ he demanded.
‘That’s the Broliad commune, or what’s left of it. Named for its late founder, who set it up a decade ago. He was a nonconformist too, Reeth, who persuaded a number of like-minded people to join him. They were a motley bunch, but shared a passion to be free of state interference. Commonly, they’re known as the Disobedients.’
‘I’ve heard of them,’ Kutch said. ‘Aren’t they pacifists or something?’
‘Mostly. They’ve tried to oppose imperial domination by non-violent means, and by living as divorced from authority as they can. It’s been pretty tough for them.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Caldason remarked, gazing down at the commune, ‘if they insist on making themselves sitting ducks out here and refusing to fight.’
‘Quite so.’ Karr paused and added, ‘I realise this is going to be hard for you.’
‘No, I can respect a peace-loving man who has the guts to stand by his beliefs.’
‘Very commendable. But that wasn’t what I meant.’
‘What did you mean?’
‘This is a
pacifist
co-operative, Reeth. That means no weapons. Visitors have to surrender their arms on entering. No exceptions.’
From Caldason’s expression, Kutch thought he was going to strike the patrician.
Instead, he rumbled, ‘Forget it. Asking a Qalochian to give up his weapons is like…’ He struggled for a comparison.
‘So cheat,’ Karr suggested.
‘That’s the politician speaking, is it?’
‘It’s common sense. Give up your more obvious weapons but keep something concealed, if you must. Though going armed down there is about as necessary as carrying an axe to defend yourself against a basketful of kittens.’
‘They’ll take my word that I have no hidden weapons?’
‘No. But they’ll take mine. They know me.’
‘And you don’t think that’s a betrayal of their trust?’
‘If you don’t use your weapons it can’t be, can it?’ Before Caldason could reply, Karr turned to Kutch. ‘And you can wipe that smirk off your face, young man. They don’t allow magic either.’
To Kutch, this was much more shocking than a weapons ban. ‘No magic?
None?
How can they function?’
‘They have some sense after all, it seems,’ Caldason muttered.
‘I thought that would interest you,’ Karr said. ‘The fact is they don’t permit either of the things you pair are wedded to. Live with it, just for a while.’
Caldason gave a resigned sigh and drew a knife. ‘What are we doing here anyway?’ he wanted to know, slipping it into his boot.
‘As I said, I’m acquainted with some of the communards. It was always my aim to connect with them when I came to
see Grentor. I have one or two matters to discuss with them. They’ll let us have victuals for the rest of our journey, in exchange for a modest swelling of their coffers, and you get to see one way people resist.’
‘I’ve seen plenty of resistance, most of it futile.’
‘I’m not saying you’ll find anything more effective in Broliad. But I’m honour-bound to meet with these people, and I’d appreciate you both being with me.’
‘
I’d
like to see the place,’ Kutch said.
‘You’ve not left us a great deal of choice, Patrician,’ Reeth put in.
‘You could walk away. Or ride away, with the wagon and team. You’re Reeth Caldason, after all. I would have thought an outlaw capable of such a thing.’
Caldason stiffened, his neck and arm muscles visibly knotting. ‘Ready?’ Without waiting for an answer he slapped the reins smartly across the horses’ hinds.
They rattled down the slope in silence.
When they reached the settlement, people came out to meet them. They were dressed plainly in homespun greys and browns. There were roughly equal numbers of men and women, upwards of two score perhaps, and around a dozen children. A small menagerie of unfettered dogs, goats and fowl accompanied them.
Karr’s claim that he knew the communards was borne out by the warm welcome they gave him. There was much in the way of hand-shaking, back-slapping and hugs. Reeth and Kutch were introduced only as friends; Karr withheld their names. The greeting they got was naturally less demonstrative than his, but seemed as open. And although Reeth’s light olive cast and slightly angular facial bone structure testified to his birthright, no one showed any hostility at having a Qalochian in their midst.
Having handed over his pair of daggers, Karr turned to Reeth. ‘You must give up your weapons,’ he told him.
Caldason bit down and unbuckled his swords, then took a sheathed knife from his belt. He dumped them into the outstretched arms of a waiting Disobedient. The man went off with them, smiling. Caldason glowered.
‘I have business to discuss with our hosts,’ Karr announced, nodding towards a particular group of communards. They were dressed as humbly as the others, and beyond the fact that they stood apart there was nothing to indicate they might have any authority. ‘It shouldn’t take long. In the meantime, they say you’re welcome to go where you please in the commune. Rest, eat, refresh yourselves. I’ll join you later.’
