Ibryen [A sequel to the Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  There was suddenly more activity in the village. Armed people were appearing in considerable numbers and though many were apparently just concerned about what was happening, at least as many again were following some well-ordered drill, dispersing themselves to what were obviously pre-arranged locations about the valley.

  'It's not an army coming,’ the Traveller said to Marris in a surprised voice, as they stood to one side to allow a group of armed men and women to run by.

  Marris gave him a brief, puzzled look, then treated the statement as a question. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It would have been a different call. This is a messenger.'

  'But not expected, I gather from your tone?'

  Marris did not reply. They were at the Council Hall where Ibryen was at the centre of a large, agitated crowd. It parted as Marris reached it though the arrival of the Traveller did little to ease the tension and Marris kept close to him as they walked up to the Count.

  'What's he doing here?’ came a voice from somewhere. An echo of agreement bubbled out from all around the crowd.

  'He's waiting, like the rest of us,’ the Count replied sternly.

  'He's seen too much.'

  'How did he get here?'

  Ibryen stamped on the questions before more came. ‘You've all heard by now what I said before unless everyone's suddenly given up gossiping. When he's been properly questioned, what we know, you will know, if it's possible. Right now, Rachyl and Hynard are checking to see if he's told us the truth about how he came here. In the meantime he's in the charge of myself and Marris and he's to be offered the courtesy due to a guest until we decide to the contrary.'

  The answer was not popular and there was some muttering, but there was enough humour mingled with Ibryen's sternness to prevent any further questions being pressed. The Traveller shifted his feet uncomfortably however, and fiddled with the rolls of cloth in his ears.

  'Are you all right?’ Marris heard himself asking.

  The Traveller nodded, but frowned. ‘The noise isn't easy to deal with, and some of your companions here are quite clear in their minds what they'd like to do with me.'

  'Don't worry, it's just talk,’ Marris said, as reassuringly as he could, then, giving him a knowing look, added, ‘talk you're not supposed to hear. They're nervous about you.’ He paused and peered into the distance like the rest of the crowd. ‘They'd probably be even more nervous if they knew what you could do.'

  His remarks did not calm the Traveller. ‘Do you think we could go inside?’ he asked, looking from Marris to Ibryen. Ibryen gave a curt nod and, with a hint of reluctance at being taken from this impromptu vigil, Marris led the Traveller into the Council Hall. As the door closed behind him the Traveller let out a noisy breath of relief. Marris jumped to a conclusion.

  'You're going to find life here very hard if you think that was noisy,’ he said. ‘You should hear the din when they're arguing.'

  'It's not that,’ the Traveller said. He was wandering about, as though looking for something. ‘Noise I can cope with if I have to. My not hearing is almost as good as my hearing at times.’ He smiled ruefully as if at some private memory, before concluding, ‘It was the hostility.'

  'I told you. That's just talk. You're in no danger, especially as the Count's given you his personal protection. Besides, you can look after yourself well enough, can't you? Even if you don't like doing it.'

  'I can, but ...’ The Traveller paused by a table and, after trying one or two, selected a seat which he twisted round slightly. He did not continue with his reservation. ‘While in many ways I'm different from you, in as many ways I'm also the same. If I'm startled suddenly or menaced in some way, then I lash out, just as you do—without thinking. And the crowd out there was menacing me.'

  'But ...'

  The Traveller silenced him with a look. ‘You must understand. I don't eavesdrop, but I couldn't help myself. I heard every word, felt every nuance that that crowd uttered and it frightened me badly for all your and the Count's assurances. People are such dangerous animals.’ He shuddered. ‘I'm talking about a reflex response. Something I've no real control over. I—my body—will use whatever noise it finds around it to use as a weapon. What I did to you deliberately was the merest touch and was taken from sounds that you probably couldn't even hear. The noise of that crowd, on the other hand, was like a vast armoury full of all manner of potentially lethal devices. I was concerned I might do great harm without intending to, both to other people and myself. That's why I wanted to get away.'

  His sincerity was all too apparent.

  'I can't pretend to understand,’ Marris said, ‘but I'll take your word for it. That merest touch of yours was alarming enough.’ He gave the Traveller an almost pleading look. ‘I know you told me not to mention it again, but we need all the help we can get. Are you sure that you can't ...'

  'Certain,’ the Traveller replied before the question was completed. He wrapped his arms about himself and shuddered again. ‘You don't know what you're asking.'

  Despite the Traveller's obvious distress, Marris still was half inclined to pursue the matter, but the little man closed his eyes and cocked his head on one side. He seemed to be approving something. ‘This is a melodious seat,’ he said with a smile. ‘You sit there.’ He pointed without opening his eyes. ‘Your visitor's a little way to come yet.’ At a loss to know how to respond to any of these remarks, Marris remained silent and sat down where the Traveller had indicated.

  As the two men sat motionless, waiting, it seemed to Marris that the silence in the Hall was deeper than ever, as though their very presence had drawn all the sounds from the place and transformed them into absolute stillness. Such quiet should have unnerved him, but he felt only calmness. The Traveller sat with his eyes still closed and his head bowed, nodding occasionally as though he were asleep in the cool shade of his favourite tree, with the scents and sounds of a summer garden all about him.

  How sad that something like this should end, Marris thought.

  The Traveller pursed his lips and moved a solitary finger in a delicate plea for silence though Marris was not aware that he had made any sound. The silence returned and flowed through him; a deep and gently overwhelming tide.

  Time ceased to exist.

  Then, as if at the touch of some unknowable moon, there was change again, and the Hall was as it always was. For a moment, Marris felt its silence to be a great clamour.

  The Traveller smiled again. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I needed that after all this upheaval.’ He looked at Marris. ‘You did well. There's something in the blood around here, without a doubt.’ Before Marris could reply, the Traveller was on his feet. ‘He's almost here now.'

  As he spoke, the Hall door opened, throwing a sunlit path across the floor. Along it, in a wash of sound, came Ibryen followed by two men who were carefully guiding a third, heavily blindfolded. The path vanished as the door closed and Ibryen spoke to the escorts who gently removed the third man's blindfold and then disappeared into one of the rooms off the hall. The Traveller beckoned the Count and indicated the table at which he had been sitting. It was the gesture of a host, at once authoritative and welcoming, and Marris's visible surprise was compounded when Ibryen obeyed it, walking protectively by the new arrival who was screwing up his eyes and blinking as he grew used to the light in the Hall. He was a young man, but his drawn face and haunted eyes betrayed hardship that was already ageing him beyond his years.

  'There'll be food and drink for you in a moment, Iscar,’ Ibryen said as they both sat down. ‘You look exhausted. Did you have any more problems than usual on the way?'

  But Iscar's attention was on the Traveller. ‘Who's this?’ he demanded bluntly.

  'Do you know him?’ Ibryen asked in return. ‘Have you seen him about the city, the Citadel? Or heard chatter of anyone similar?'

  Iscar gave the question no thought. ‘No, never,’ he replied immediately and unequivocally. ‘Who is he? How did he get here?'

  'In due course,’
Ibryen said. ‘But, as ever, only if we consider it safe for you to know.’ The answer seemed to satisfy Iscar, but he kept looking uncertainly at the Traveller. ‘Now tell us what's brought you here so early.'

  Iscar leaned forward across the table as if to give his message less distance to travel.

  'Hagen's dead!'

  'Dead?’ Both Marris and Ibryen echoed his last word. Then there were a few moments of stuttering confusion which Iscar ended brusquely.

  'The only tale we have, but it's from several good sources, is that two death-pit dogs panicked the horses and turned his carriage over. Then as he struggled out of it, someone ran out of the crowd and stabbed him.'

  'Someone?’ Ibryen said, snatching at the first thing that came to him.

  'So the rumour goes,’ Iscar confirmed. ‘Two wild dogs and one man—and him only a youth apparently. Just jumped up on to the carriage and stabbed the devil.’ His hand mimicked the action and he bared his teeth in grim appreciation. ‘We've no idea who it was.'

  There was a brief buzzing silence.

  'Hagen dead,’ Ibryen said wonderingly. ‘I can't believe it.’ He could not keep the shock from his voice as he asked the question that had just been answered. ‘And no one knows who did it?'

  'Not as far as we can find out.'

  'Is there a chance it could be one of your people, taking matters into their own hands?'

  Iscar gave a faintly helpless shrug. ‘It's a possibility. I suppose,’ he said. ‘We work in small, separate groups for fear of us all being betrayed at once, so there must be some doubt.’ He was frowning and shaking his head even as he spoke, and he went on more certainly, ‘But no, I can't see it being any of us. It was such a bizarre, almost random attack. Killing Hagen is everyone's fantasy, but even when it was discussed it was never seriously considered. Certainly no plans were made. It was obvious that such an act—if it could be done—if people could be found to do it—would have to be a precursor to a larger action, precisely for fear of what's happening right now.'

  Ibryen's face darkened at the reminder. ‘What is happening?'

  'The city's under full curfew and they're purging all around where it happened.’ He hesitated. ‘House by house. They've brought army units in to help. I only just managed to get out.'

  Ibryen's expression was pained and, briefly, he turned his face away from this stark telling. The silence of the Hall closed about the group.

  'Whoever did it cost the city a fearful price,’ Iscar said into it dully.

  No one spoke for some time.

  'It must have been some demented soul driven past his wit's end,’ Ibryen conjectured eventually, his voice full of conflicting emotions. He glanced at Marris. ‘Dust in the wind,’ he said. ‘But what'll be left standing after this avalanche?'

  'Hagen murdered.’ Marris spoke for the first time. His face was pained. ‘News for celebration if ever we heard such, except that the consequences for Dirynhald don't bear thinking about.’ It took him an effort to force the next words out. ‘Still, they're set in train now and must be lived with, whatever they are. Apart from that, my only regret is that I wasn't able to kill him myself.'

  The talking stumbled to a grateful halt as the two escorts entered with food and drink for Iscar. He ate greedily while the others sat back, engrossed in their own thoughts. As Iscar finished eating at the same speed as he had started, Ibryen signalled for more food to be brought. ‘Things are getting worse are they?’ he asked.

  Iscar coloured and hastily declined the offer. ‘I'm sorry,’ he stammered. Now, guilt-stricken, he looked like the young man he was. ‘Food's getting scarcer and scarcer. In fact, everything's getting scarcer. The Gevethen are blaming you and neighbouring states, but it's the incompetence of the people who are running things now. Or malice. A lot of the farmers near the city have been expelled and their farms are just lying fallow. It beggars belief.'

  Ibryen laid a fatherly hand on his shoulder. ‘One thing we're fortunate in here is that we're not short of food yet,’ he said. ‘Not much variety, I'll grant you, but it's good simple fare. Eat what you can while you're with us and relish it. Get back some of your strength, you're going to need it, and your going hungry won't fill the bellies of your comrades in the city. If you think it's safe you can take some back with you when you leave.'

  The reassurance seemed to ease Iscar just as giving it seemed to help Ibryen, the one exhausted and fretful following his difficult journey, the other still trying to come to terms with the startling news he had just received.

  'What shall we do, Count?’ Iscar asked as he regained his composure.

  'What have you already done?'

  'Nothing,’ Iscar replied hastily. ‘Everyone's stunned and the city's closed. All we could think of was to let you know what had happened.'

  Ibryen nodded slowly. ‘Have there been any signs of disturbance or disaffection amongst the Guards or the army?’ he asked.

  'No. The only thing out of the ordinary was that they tolled the Dohrum Bell twice,’ Iscar replied. Both Ibryen and Marris straightened in surprise at this, but Ibryen simply asked how quickly the army had been brought in to help with the purging.

  'Almost immediately,’ Iscar replied.

  Ibryen frowned. ‘No one can accuse the Gevethen of being incompetent when it comes to controlling their fighters.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You're right to have done nothing. The world can't be other than a better place with Hagen gone from it, but I fear that any precipitate action would be foolish at best. It occurred to me that perhaps the killing was part of a rebellion by the Gevethen's own people. But from what you say, it seems that it was nothing more than a random act by someone deranged.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘It's good that something like that can suddenly strike so close to the Gevethen's heart—perhaps it'll teach them about the vagaries of chance, or about the consequences of using force to repress a people, though I doubt it—but it's tragic that neither we nor you are in a position to take any tactical advantage from it. Tragic.’ Wilfully he sloughed off the mood and became authoritative. ‘You and your people must concentrate on surviving until the purging's over. Stay still and silent. Take no risks. Some other time will come.'

  He would have preferred a more rousing conclusion. Marris echoed the sense of anticlimax. ‘The death of such a man in such a way should have heralded great events.'

  'Perhaps it does,’ Ibryen said thoughtfully. ‘If we've got the vision to see them. Many things today are different from what they were yesterday, aren't they?’ He looked at the Traveller. ‘Perhaps what we need to do is look and listen to what's happening beyond the immediately apparent.’ The idea intrigued him. ‘With Hagen gone, there'll be a rare scrambling for position amongst their followers. Right from the top to the bottom. Change all the way through. And who can say what that'll bring?’ He spoke to Iscar again. ‘Tell your people to watch and listen. To find out what promotions are being made, what new rivalries begun, what quarrels.'

  'And what scores are being settled,’ Marris added.

  'But take great care,’ Ibryen went on. ‘We know to our cost that the Gevethen have more unseen and unknown servants than liveried ones and the change will affect them too. Take care who you bring new to the cause.'

  'Informers are a problem we're well aware of,’ Iscar said with a hint of reproach in his voice. ‘The death pits contain more than just the Gevethen's victims.'

  The mood around the table changed perceptibly at this dark observation. Iscar's attention returned to the Traveller, though he did not speak.

  Ibryen addressed the unspoken question. ‘Nothing as momentous as your news has happened here, Iscar, and what has happened I can't tell you about. But change has come here too, and a new strategy is under way that will take us directly to the heart of the Gevethen.'

  Iscar's eyes widened and he made to speak but Ibryen's hand held him silent. ‘For the time being, I can tell you neither the time nor the events that will mark this, but inform your people t
hat it will come when they least expect it and they will have their part to play in it.’ He leaned forward earnestly. ‘Suffice it that the Gevethen will be attacked from a direction that they did not even know existed.'

  Iscar glanced quickly at the Traveller and then at Marris, but the Traveller was gazing idly around the Hall, apparently indifferent to the conversation, and Marris's face was unreadable.

  'You must rest now,’ Ibryen said, ignoring the mute appeal. ‘Leave me your messages to study and I'll reply to them before you go.'

  It was an end to the brief conference. Iscar struggled for a moment with the questions that Ibryen's announcement had loosed in him, but left them unasked.

  A little later, Iscar was resting in one of the rooms off the Hall, while Marris and the Traveller were sitting with nothing to do other than watch Ibryen as he read through the papers that Iscar had brought. Marris was restless, several times catching his muscular fingers on the verge of beating out a devil's tattoo on the table. As Ibryen turned over yet another page, Marris's patience ended abruptly.

  'What did you tell him that for?’ he hissed.

  Only Ibryen's eyes moved as he looked over the page at his questioner. ‘I'm reading,’ he said.

  'What did you tell him that for?’ Marris repeated.

  'Let me finish,’ Ibryen replied, with an edge to his voice which stopped Marris pressing his question further, but made him even more restless than before. Finally Ibryen laid down the papers and pushed them across to Marris, his face grim. ‘Morale's better than we deserve,’ he said before Marris could speak. ‘It's not easy living here, but it doesn't compare with what our people in Dirynhald are having to tolerate. Living in squalid daily hardship and helpless in the face of a terror that can arbitrarily snatch them from their firesides at any time without even the vaguest pretence of lawful authority. We forget too easily that for some of them each passing moment is a nightmare, each passing footstep, each knock on the door the possible harbinger of untold horror.'

  'But why did you tell Iscar we had some great plan in hand?’ Marris blurted out, though less forcefully than before.