Daughter of Independence

by Simon Brown

  ‘It was at Mount Hassouly in the Vardar Mountains that I left behind my old life, at the funeral of my mistress. I have not been an Axkevleren since that time, and will not be again. So I will take the name of the mountain where my past was buried.’

  ‘An Axkevleren?’ Velan said with some surprise.

  ‘Once,’ Arden corrected him. ‘Now Hassouly.’

  ‘I will inform the prefect and the committee on my return,’ Gos said, and Arden bowed slightly for the favour. ‘Now, if you will, Governor Arden Hassouly, Velan and I would like to introduce you to your army.’

  *

  The next morning, assuming that under his parole he would be returning to Kydan with Gos Linsedd, Velan Lymok started packing for the trip. He was interrupted by Gos knocking on his door and entering without waiting for a reply, then setting himself in the middle of the room with his hands hooked into his pants and looking at his feet.

  Velan waited.

  Eventually Gos said, ‘I’ve been talking with the governor.’

  ‘How is he this morning?’ Velan asked. ‘Loquacious?’

  ‘You know, I don’t think Arden could be loquacious to save his life. Not that I can imagine anything in its right mind that would threaten him.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why he is never, you know . . .’

  ‘Loquacious.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Velan stood there, waiting again, his clean undergarments in one hand waiting to be packed. ‘Commander?’

  ‘Yes, as I was saying, I’ve been having a chat with the governor and the issue of his various responsibilities came up.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Go on,’ Velan urged.

  ‘Such as administration, justice, trade . . . and the army.’

  Velan laughed lightly. ‘I remember his face yesterday when he first met his army. All two hundred of them.’

  ‘They impressed him when they started marching, though,’ Gos said. ‘Thanks to your training.’

  Velan blinked. ‘Well, thank you,’ he managed to squeeze out. ‘Although marching with the Kydan regulars helped a lot.’

  ‘The militia will have to get bigger, more professional. Sayenna may not be as large as Kydan now, but one day it may be. One day it may even be larger. With that in mind, I have suggested to Arden, and he has agreed, that it would be appropriate, that is to say most advantageous for all concerned, including Kydan and Sayenna, if you stayed on as local commander.’

  Velan held his breath.

  Gos looked at him with an anxious expression. ‘Well, what do you say?’

  The breath gushed out. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. If this is what you want to do.’

  Velan nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I think it is. I mean, until just now I didn’t know what I wanted to do, but I think I would like to do this. At least for a while. For a long while, maybe.’

  Gos relaxed. ‘Well, that is fine. Now Arden has a new name, a new commercial administrator and a new commander. That’s a good start for any governor.’

  *

  ‘I am Arden Hassouly,’ Arden told himself for the hundredth time that morning. He was afraid that if he did not drive it into his memory his past would resurrect itself and throw it away, and then he would be Axkevleren for the rest of his life and that would be worse than dying.

  ‘I am Arden Hassouly,’ he said, but not so loud that he thought anyone else would hear.

  ‘Governor Arden Hassouly,’ Quenion said by his side.

  Arden grunted, not prepared to admit he was embarrassed at having been caught out.

  ‘I think I will follow your lead and take a name too,’ she said.

  ‘What name?’

  Quenion shrugged. ‘I am in no hurry. I am still finding myself, still finding just Quenion, whatever is left of her.’

  ‘You will find that is a great deal, I think,’ Arden said.

  Commodore Avier appeared at the gangplank of the Grayling, said something to its captain and strode down to the dock. He shook hands vigorously with Arden. ‘Good luck, Governor,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet again, sooner rather than later, I expect.’ He then shook hands with Quenion and Velan and lastly Gos. ‘Have a good trip, Commander. Don’t get lost on the way home.’

  ‘Nor you, Commodore, on the way to the old world,’ Gos said. He smiled thinly. ‘Remember. Due west. Large land mass. Keep your eyes open and you can’t miss it.’

  Avier laughed, and Gos helped him down to the longboat that would take him back to Annglaf.

  Arden and his companions stayed on the dock until Avier reached the schooner and saw the ship’s anchor raised and her sails dropped, then slowly walked back to the keep. Waiting for them there was Gos’s half-troop of dragoons, already mounted, and the infantry from Kydan.

  Gos gave brief farewells to Arden and Quenion, then paused in front of Velan Lymok.

  ‘I think you will do well here,’ he said.

  ‘I think so too. I hope so.’

  Gos nodded, as if agreeing with himself, then said, ‘Where’s your horse?’

  ‘My horse?’

  ‘You must see me to The Wash so that you can lead back your dragoons.’

  Velan’s mouth opened.

  ‘I have another half-troop back in Kydan. You will need a horse in Sayenna; there is a lot of territory hereabouts to cover.’

  Velan disappeared to ready his mount, and Gos said to the others, ‘I will start now. Velan can catch up. Having said my goodbyes it would be embarrassing to stay any longer.’

  After Gos was gone, Arden and Quenion waited until Velan reappeared and waved him on, then walked back into the keep together. Without a word they climbed to the top of the tower and looked out over the bay. Dark clouds were lining up on the horizon and a stiff southerly would soon bring them to land.

  ‘Your education begins now,’ Quenion said. ‘Sayenna has autumn and winter rains, usually not heavy, but good enough for a soaking. Then in spring the plains come alive with wildflowers. Summer is dry, so we need the rain now. You will have to make sure all the reservoirs are repaired and ready.’

  Arden nodded, absorbing the view as he absorbed Quenion’s words. ‘I am going to do good here. We are going to do good here.’

  Quenion breathed deeply as a gust of wind blew around them.

  8

  Paimer was woken by singing. He sat up in his bed, slightly disoriented, and listened to the saddest sound he had ever heard in his life. It was not simply a dirge, but a great well of grief that rose over Beferen like dark smoke, filling every space and cutting out all hope of light. It came from all around him. He put on a robe and left his room. The two guards who had been on duty outside his room silently fell in behind; Paimer caught their expressions and saw the same wonder and surprise and fear that must have been showing on his own face. He reached a second-floor gallery with windows covered by wooden slats. He opened the slats and peered out into the darkness.

  As far as he could tell, the singing came from every house, from the whole city. It rose and fell like the waves on Beferen’s shore, and was as chilling as a winter sea. He felt tears well in his own eyes, even though he could not hear the words distinctly enough to know what the song was about.

  ‘Of course you know what it is about,’ Idalgo said, stamping on the floor and slapping his arms to keep warm.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Paimer whispered.

  ‘It’s a lament for all those slain by your niece, by the Sefid and Hamilay’s terrible army.’ Idalgo pointed up to the swelling moon. ‘The people of Beferen wait until the first full moon after a disaster, and then sing the lament every night for a tenday to ease the passage into the hereafter of the souls of the dead.’

  ‘That’s superstition,’ Paimer said under his breath. He heard his guards shuffle uncomfortably behind him, but ignored them.

  ‘That’s Beferen,’ Idalgo pointed out. ‘The Kevlerens who lived here were like you, but not the people. They are not like Hamilayans, not in every way. They still re
tain some of the old beliefs. Maybe that’s why they could conceive of rebelling against your family.’

  An officer appeared carrying a brand. He looked worried. ‘Lord Protector, everyone is singing this song. The whole palace is awake now. Should we do something about it? The soldiers are very restless –’

  ‘Leave the singing be,’ Paimer ordered. ‘They hate us enough without giving them any more reason.’

  ‘They will finish soon anyway,’ Idalgo said.

  ‘They will finish soon,’ Paimer relayed to the officer. The officer regarded him curiously. ‘I heard stories about it before I came,’ he said weakly. ‘The point is, tell the soldiers to get used to it.’

  ‘Your Highness, are they going to sing every night?’ There was rising fear in the man’s voice.

  ‘For a tenday. We are not to interfere.’

  The officer nodded and left. Paimer stayed where he was, and continued listening to the song.

  ‘It’s bloody freezing,’ Idalgo said, hugging himself against the cold.

  ‘Don’t pretend you feel it,’ Paimer said sullenly.

  ‘What? The cold or the song?’

  Paimer refused to answer, and Idalgo eventually stopped the stamping and arm-slapping. ‘Well, I didn’t want you to feel alone, that’s all,’ he said.

  ‘I never feel so alone as when you are with me,’ Paimer said.

  *

  ‘There is something despicable about a man who is so self-possessed he needs no one to love.’

  Chierrna was on his way to a small village called Herlan. If memory served him correctly, and it usually did, it had a taxable population of just over a hundred. Not far from being a town, then. He had visited Herlan once before, many years ago, and thought it quite an attractive place. Over the last several days he had visited many attractive villages and hamlets and even a town or two, and over the next tenday would see many more. Chierrna was on his annual tour of the regions holdings, part of the governors responsibility. With him were his secretary, Feruna, bookkeepers and a small military escort.

  And the Lady Englay Kevleren.

  Chierma glanced up quickly. He was almost thirty yards from anyone else. His people knew he liked to travel alone so he could think in quiet, and kept ahead of him. He also did not want anyone overhearing his conversations with Englay.

  ‘Are you listening to me?’ she persisted.

  ‘You are mistaken,’ he said calmly. ‘I have never claimed I did not need someone to love.’

  ‘I don’t think you know what love is.’

  ‘Possibly, but it is certain you do not.’

  He liked this part of Rivald. It was not so hilly as nearer to Hamewald, but still had the advantage of elevation, so rivers and streams ran quickly; there were more orchards and woods and glens rather than flat fields with wheat and barley, and instead of cows and sheep there were goats and geese and pigs. And there was the sun, which seemed to shine more often than not over this thin stretch of territory between the mountains, almost always dressed in cloud, and the lowlands before Beferen, forever drenched in rain.

  ‘Our conversations are increasingly limited,’ Englay complained.

  ‘They’re not about you, you mean,’ Chierma replied, almost offhandedly. He was more interested in the terrain. He was passing a grove of olive trees on his right, with their hard, grasping branches the colour of baked dirt. The grass underneath them was yellow, not green. He thought the trees and grass were very tenacious here. Not pretty, but tough, and that had its own kind of beauty.

  ‘You don’t want to antagonise me,’ Englay warned.

  ‘What are you going to do? Nag me to death?’

  ‘Not me, my dear Chierma. I am a dead woman. You know I have no power.’

  She got his interest then and he turned to look at her, but she was gone.

  *

  Commander Marquella Montranto noticed that Paimer was looking tired, but did not inquire. He did not yet know his new master well enough to pretend to that sort of politeness. Anyway, he could guess the source of it and felt no great pity; he was a native, and the singing had reached deeper into him than into this Hamilayan prince, he was sure. He delivered to Paimer his report on the progress of the work gangs rebuilding the city, received new instructions and set about converting them into orders that would see them carried out. About mid-morning he set out for his regular inspection tour, seeing first-hand how his subordinates – how he liked the sound of that word! – were getting along in the new world, in a ruined city under the heel of a foreign ruler.

  Perhaps not so foreign after all. Montranto reminded himself that the Safety Committee, of which he had been a member, had ultimately proved to be nothing but a brief interregnum between Kevlerens. It was not the nationality of the ruler that irked so many, but its name. Although, he had to admit to himself, he had done all right. He had climbed steadily, if not spectacularly, up the military ladder under Queen Sarra Kevleren, then lurched into quite high command under the Safety Committee, and now, under the protectorship of Paimer Kevleren, was in a position of even higher authority and influence.

  But only in regard to my own people, he reminded himself as he passed a patrol of Hamilayan infantry, a flock of arrogant, prancing, sneering conquerors.

  Montranto stopped himself. It was unseemly to grind one’s teeth in public. Besides, it gave him a toothache. And why should he care anyway? Why was Lerena worse than Sarra? And by what comparison could Sarra have been considered worse than the Safety Committee that replaced her?

  As well, in time, if he proved himself loyal and hardworking, and said the right things at the right occasion, he might well improve his position, perhaps even to the point of the Hamilayans themselves calling him ‘sir’.

  Now that would be nice.

  *

  Herlan seemed in good order. As was the custom in Rivald, the village had elected a reeve to represent them in discussions with authority, and he had expertly guided Chierma and his party around Herlan and its surrounding farmlands, pointing out those areas where the government in Hamewald could best offer assistance – a new well here, a stone bridge there – and conveniently avoided those points that might be misconstrued as extra sources of taxable revenue or breaches of some law or regulation. Chierma allowed himself to be led in this way. It was a delicate game, with the rules understood but never stated; Chierma for his part would note where necessary and ignore when appropriate in exchange for the village keeping its illegal stills to a minimum and its tithe respectable. The best result was a comfortable and affordable increase in tax each year, proof that the village was growing and the government was providing the necessary services.

  When the official business was over, and Chierma had announced the tax expected from the village for the next year, in this case an increase over the previous year of only a royal in gold or its equivalent in tradable goods, Chierma and his officials were given a banquet that showed off local produce. There was a good deal of food to get through since the banquet was held traditionally when any extra produce that could not be stored over winter was consumed, and a good deal of drink since winter near the mountains was often harsh and there would be little to celebrate until solstice.

  Although Chierma ate and drank sparingly he enjoyed the banquet. It was a sign that the land was recovering from Lerena’s invasion and that the year’s harvest had been good and that the people were getting on with their lives. As they always did, he supposed. Wars could be hard and cruel on the innocent, but as often as not war could pass by the common folk, touching them only lightly as soldiers and officers and nobles died in their multitudes; especially a civil war between competing factions, and in a real sense that was exactly what Lerena’s invasion had been: the resolution of an old rivalry between two branches of a single family. Ultimately, the revolution against Queen Sarra that he had helped instigate had done nothing more than give Lerena the doorway she needed to enter Rivald and take it over.

  Chierma refused to acknowl
edge his own dissatisfaction at the ease with which the Safety Committee had been overturned. He refused to acknowledge the absolute lack of power the government and army of Rivald had had in the face of the Empress Lerena Kevleren and the Sefid. For a while, for a very short while, they thought they had found the answer, that by holding the Rivald Kevlerens to ransom, the Hamilayan Kevlerens would do nothing. No one had counted on just how ruthless Lerena could be. How ruthless and bloody and homicidal.

  ‘It makes you feel insignificant, doesn’t it?’ Englay prodded him.

  A dancing couple swirled near him, and Chierma automatically laughed to show all those around him what a good time he was having.

  ‘All the joyous celebrating in the world doesn’t hide the fact that you are all nothing but sheep and cattle in the eyes of the empress. Do you feel like part of a herd, Chierma Axkevleren?’

  ‘No.’ He raised his mug of rough red wine to the village reeve, a bald, almost toothless fellow who had caught his eye and grinned.

  ‘Do you feel insignificant? Are you the last miserable thought in Lerena’s shortest, most forgettable dream? Are you smaller than the anus of a flea?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are a spot of dirt on the world, Chierma Axkevleren. You are nothing.’

  ‘Then what does that say for you, who must needle and jab and hang around me like my oldest, most moth-ridden coat?’

  ‘You won’t get to me that way,’ Englay said disapprovingly.

  ‘I just did,’ Chierma said, smiling.

  *

  It was the last night of the lament, and as he had every night Paimer went to the second-floor gallery and gazed out over the city. He was usually joined by other Hamilayans in the palace who found it impossible to sleep when the lament was being sung, united by a greater than usual awareness of their isolation and a fear of the unknown. After a while Paimer closed his eyes and let the lament wash over him like a rising tide, the hairs on his arms and neck prickling as the song reached its climax and then finally faded away, leaving him stranded on a foreign beach. Except this time, when he opened his eyes, he felt not quite so foreign himself, not quite so alien and afraid.