Caddoran

by Roger Taylor

  In spite of himself, Krim gaped. For a moment even his concerns about the sunlight vanished. He had not expected this! Striker Bowlott concerning himself with matters outside Moot business.

  Though not a gossip – indeed, he was a sink of silence – Krim listened a great deal and little that happened in the Moot Palace passed him by. He had heard about what Vashnar had done but paid no great heed to it. As a matter outside the Moot it was of little import. Besides, the Wardens were an odd lot – one of the more regrettable legacies of the Moot’s long history. As a body they were perhaps tolerable enough, but as individuals most of them were quite beyond the pale, showing – even revelling in – a complete disregard for the intricacies of the traditions and procedures of the Moot.

  And now their antics had brought this about! The Striker driven to discussing them with an Officer of the Moot. Yet, he could not forbear a frisson of excitement as the image of himself as saviour of the Moot stirred contentedly deep within him – the Striker raising this matter with him!

  Self-interest quickly reasserted itself. Starting from so unusual a topic, it should not be too difficult to direct the conversation back to Moot matters and thus his duties as Venerable and Honoured Cushion Bearer. Then it would be a simple matter to introduce the name of the Most Noble Artisan at some point…

  He must be bold.

  ‘I’m unfamiliar with the details of the affair, Striker Bowlott. I tend not to listen to Corridor gossip. I have quite pressing problems here in the Cushion Repository.’ He turned and indicated the offending window. ‘The curtains, you see…’

  ‘Your discretion is well-known, Krim, and you’re not alone in being unfamiliar with the details.’ Bowlott tapped his hand on the arm of the chair agitatedly. ‘Everyone’s talking about it, but no one seems to know what’s actually happened.’

  This was not what Krim had had in mind. His hand hovered in the general direction of the window for a moment, before he realized that he was going to have to pursue the Striker’s choice of topic until a better opportunity could be found to bring him back to matters of real moment.

  ‘Surely the Death Cry is not a Moot matter,’ he offered, laying heavy emphasis on the word Moot in an attempt to imply that the Striker should not be concerning himself with it.

  ‘All things are matters for the Moot, when the Moot so determines,’ Bowlott rebutted sternly, furrowing his brow so that his tiny eyes almost vanished.

  Krim, crushed by this proclamation, bowed.

  ‘And the Moot may yet so determine if this affair continues to be a distracting subject of debate and gossip amongst its members.’ The eyes reappeared and Bowlott pressed back hard against the cushion that supported his head and shoulders. Recovering himself, Krim unfolded to his full height and nimbly made minor adjustments to the cushion.

  Bowlott’s face relaxed. ‘Technically, you are correct. The Cry is one of the ancient and fundamental rights of the people, the protection of which is the Moot’s fundamental duty. However, there are times when to protect such a right, it becomes necessary to circumscribe… or even curtail it…’

  Bowlott’s voice faded away as he made this last pronouncement. Krim was genuinely disturbed. He found himself gaping again. Although he had been too long ensconced in the Moot Palace even to envisage clearly what might happen, he remembered enough from his younger days to know that the Cry was a right particularly cherished by the public, and that to interfere with it would be to bring about open defiance of the Moot’s authority. And it was a basic, if unspoken, tenet of both Senators and the Moot’s officers alike that attracting the people’s attention to the activities of the Moot was a bad thing.

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Even thinking about the people beyond the Moot unsettled Krim. Now he found himself assailed by the thought that faced with Bowlott’s remark, he should actually do something! But what? His mind began to spiral towards panic. Then he heard himself speaking.

  ‘I haven’t your deep understanding of such matters, Striker Bowlott. The Treatise. The Addenda. Ancient rights. But perhaps if…’ He hesitated. ‘If you were to… speak to Commander Vashnar… perhaps ask him why he proclaimed the Death Cry against Hyrald and the others… why…’

  His voice faded as Bowlott turned to him, eyes glinting enigmatically out of the depths. Then, abruptly, he was out of the chair and pacing to and fro.

  The Fitting Chair stood at the centre of a small circular arena, the lowest point of the Cushion Repository and a focus for the rows of tiered shelves. After traversing this a couple of times, Bowlott, hands clenched behind his back and head bowed, turned into one of the aisles that led up from it. After an unsteady start, Krim strode after him, swaying stiffly, long hands nervously fiddling with the brass measuring rod. What had prompted him to speak as he had? Such recklessness. Was he to be rebuked? Was perhaps the Striker going to make an impromptu inspection of his domain, in search of something that might be wanting, to sharpen further his rebuke? Krim’s hands began to shake. The sun glinted malevolently off the brass rod sending shards of mocking light into the dingiest reaches of the Repository.

  The Striker stopped as he reached the top of the steps and turned to look over the arena as though he were facing the fully assembled Moot. Krim, some way below, stared up at him apprehensively.

  Looking over Krim’s head at his invisible audience, Bowlott proclaimed, ‘Your skills are a great comfort to us, Venerable and Honoured Cushion Bearer.’

  Us, Krim noted ecstatically. Not a rebuke, but a formal Striker’s commendation. A great honour, both to him and his office. He glowed under it, forgetting his recent concerns and quite forgetting his real opinion of the Striker.

  Bowlott continued. ‘After long and taxing consideration of the relevant precedents, I have determined what must be done to resolve this matter. I shall speak to Commander Vashnar. I shall ask him why he has done what he has done.’

  Krim bowed, flushed with delight. Such wisdom, he thought.

  Chapter 3

  ‘It’s a sea monster.’ Thyrn was wide-eyed as he stared at the approaching shape. Hyrald shot him a silencing glance, though there was as much doubt in his eyes as anger, and he half drew his sword as he moved to stand by Rhavvan. One of the horses whinnied. Adren reached up to calm it.

  As if in response, the shape stopped its advance and stood swaying slightly.

  ‘Who are you? What’s been happening here?’

  An unsteady voice, a man’s, reached them through the mist.

  Rhavvan frowned. ‘Who’re you?’ he echoed back, following it with a more uncertain, ‘What are you?’

  The shape wavered, then replied, ‘I’m a shoreman.’

  And, abruptly, with two cautious paces forward, it was a man. What had made his mist-shrouded form so strange was a long object he was carrying on his back. His loose-fitting calf-length boots and hooded long coat were patently working clothes of some kind, and they glistened dully as if wet. The coat was unfastened and Hyrald noted immediately that he was unarmed, apart from what was obviously a working knife in a rough string-bound sheath shoved into his belt. The object on his back exaggerated his movements, which in turn demonstrated that he was torn between staying and fleeing. He was also edging sideways slightly, as if he were trying to move around and past them. Whatever else he might be, Hyrald decided, he was no immediate threat. He released his sword and Rhavvan, reaching the same conclusion, lowered his staff.

  ‘Who are you?’ the newcomer repeated, clearly afraid. ‘What are you doing here?’ Then he saw the bodies of the dead Wardens. He stepped back with a cry, half stumbling as he did so.

  Rhavvan moved forward quickly and caught his arm.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I… I told you… I’m a shoreman. Let me go. Don’t hurt me. I’ve nothing worth having on me. Hardly any fish even, today.’ Then, more urgently, ‘I must get off the shore.’ He tried to shake free of Rhavvan’s grip, but was apparently no match for the big man. He m
ade no attempt to draw his knife with his free hand.

  Hyrald intervened. ‘Don’t be afraid. We mean you no harm.’

  He nodded to Rhavvan, who reluctantly eased his grip on the man. Hyrald met his frightened but unexpectedly searching gaze. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he repeated earnestly, willing calmness into the man. He pointed to the two bodies. ‘I can explain what’s happened here. There’s been… an accident. We’re not going to hurt you. We just want…’

  A raucous cry from above made all of them start. It was followed by the sound of a wave gently breaking.

  With unexpected force the man tore his arm free from Rhavvan. His face was desperate now and it was obvious he was going to flee no matter what the cost. Yet, as Hyrald held his gaze, he hesitated. Hyrald held out a hand to stop Rhavvan seizing him again. The man pointed past the group, into the mist. His mouth worked silently for a moment before he managed to say, ‘For mercy’s sake, man, the tide’s turning. Get off the shore.’

  Somewhere, another wave broke, louder this time. The nearby water’s edge suddenly retreated then surged forward with unexpected force, splashing over Hyrald’s boots, tugging at him impatiently. The shoreman began running, deftly evading a lunge from Rhavvan despite his cumbersome burden.

  A cold breeze brushed Hyrald’s face and the man’s fear swept over him. ‘We’re lost. Help us,’ he shouted after the retreating form. ‘Please.’

  The shoreman stopped and turned, then gestured to them.

  ‘Get on your horses – follow me, quickly.’ And he was running again.

  His urgency infected the others and, without any debate, Rhavvan mounted, dragging the injured and protesting Warden unceremoniously across his saddle, while Hyrald and Nordath took the other two horses with Adren and Thyrn. Another wave lapped around the horses’ hooves. Then they were galloping after the fleeing shoreman. It took them longer to catch him than Hyrald had anticipated – he was running very quickly, despite his burden.

  As they rode, it came to Hyrald briefly that he might perhaps be dreaming, following this silent figure through the cold greyness that constantly unfocused his eyes. He could hear nothing above the dull sound of hooves on the soft sand and the disordered clatter of tackle, though somewhere he sensed a growing sound trying to be heard. The runner’s urgency pervaded everything, drawing the three riders after him, like an army, unmanned and turned into a rout by a single sudden deserter.

  Then they were moving alongside a wide foaming stream running between sharp, fresh-cut banks in the sand – it too, seemed to be fleeing. Once again Hyrald felt disorientated as the stream was moving faster than they were, giving the impression when he looked down at it that he was not moving, or even moving backwards. He shook his head to rid himself of the disconcerting image.

  The shoreman, running along the edge of the stream, was looking at it intently, though occasionally he glanced backwards at the riders. He reached a decision and shouted something.

  Hyrald caught the words, ‘Risk it,’ and ‘Follow me,’ then, with bewildering speed, the shoreman had swung his burden from his back, dropped it into the water and stepped into it – it was a narrow boat. He snatched up a paddle hung on the side and gesticulated urgently with it to the riders, before plunging it into the racing water. ‘Quickly,’ he kept shouting.

  Hyrald hesitated for a moment, but Rhavvan dashed past him, echoing the shoreman’s cry. Nordath and Hyrald spurred forwards after him.

  Though the stream was not very wide, it was deeper than Hyrald had expected and he could feel the fear in his horse as the water dragged at its legs. Then, as the water deepened further, everything was confusion and near-panic, with spray and curses filling the air as the horses struggled to stay upright against the power of the stream and the riders struggled to stay mounted.

  When they were halfway across, a sudden surge in the stream made Nordath’s horse lose its footing. It recovered, but as it did, Thyrn lost his grip on Nordath and, with a cry, tumbled into the water. Hyrald watched horrified as, arms thrashing, Thyrn floated for a moment then disappeared beneath the water. The sight of his upturned, terrified face, and the knowledge of his own helplessness, brought the futility and insanity of the past few weeks crashing down on Hyrald. A frantic roar of rage and frustration formed in his throat as the current relentlessly carried Thyrn away.

  ‘Keep going!’

  It was the shoreman. His voice barely penetrated the din of the splashing horses and the turmoil filling Hyrald’s mind, but a blow from his paddle and his urgent gesturing did. Adren shook her brother and shouted the same message directly into his ear. ‘Get us out or we’ll be joining him!’

  As Hyrald returned to his own struggle, he was aware of the shoreman, his paddle working desperately, now one side of the boat, now the other, pursuing Thyrn. The boat twisted and turned as he manoeuvred it through the increasingly turbulent stream while he peered into the depths in search of the young man.

  Hyrald could see no sign of Thyrn, but the shoreman suddenly spun his boat about and plunged an arm into the water. The boat tilted perilously and for a long moment everything seemed to be motionless and balanced. Then the boat turned and abruptly righted itself and Thyrn was being lifted out of the water. He was flailing his arms frantically, causing the boat to rock violently. Hyrald was about to call out to him to be still when the shoreman gave him a powerful slap across the face, and somehow managed to drag him half across the boat where he pinioned him with a none too gentle boot.

  Hyrald’s horse was the last to reach the far side of the stream. When it arrived, Rhavvan and Nordath had already ridden downstream to meet the shoreman and his passenger. Thyrn spilled out on to the sand, coughing and retching, as the boat was driven into the bank at speed. The shoreman vaulted out of it and dragged it from the water. Rhavvan hoisted Thyrn to his feet with the intention of examining him, but the shoreman urgently signalled him to keep moving. By way of emphasis, he himself began running again, slinging the boat across his back as he ran and scarcely breaking stride. Rhavvan hastily thrust Thyrn up behind Nordath with the injunction, ‘Hang on!’ and remounted.

  With the riders trotting beside him, the shoreman maintained the same headlong pace for some while until the sand became dry and loose and dotted with occasional clumps of hard green grass.

  Finally he stopped and dropped to his knees, breathing heavily. Rhavvan dismounted and lifted the injured Warden down, a little more gently than he had handled him before. The man was unconscious.

  ‘He’s only passed out,’ Rhavvan said, laying him down. ‘Probably the best thing he could have done in the circumstances.’

  Hyrald cast a glance at Thyrn, slithering down from Nordath’s horse. The young man, wringing wet and still coughing, was a dismal sight, but seemingly unhurt so, his own knees shaking, he crouched down unsteadily by the panting shoreman. ‘Thank you,’ he said, resting a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’d no idea where we were, or the danger we were in. It seems to me you risked your own life to save us… especially Thyrn here.’

  ‘We were nearly too late,’ the man replied breathlessly. He was patting his boat as if he wanted to embrace it. ‘But I couldn’t leave you, could I? Whoever you are. Not to the sea.’ He shivered then looked at Hyrald intently. ‘What possessed you to go out that far?’

  ‘We need to light a fire,’ Nordath interrupted before Hyrald could reply. He indicated Thyrn, hugging himself. ‘He’s sodden. The last thing we need now is him down with a fever.’

  Hyrald looked around. ‘I doubt there’s any wood lying about here. See if there’s anything in the Wardens’ packs.’

  ‘Theywere Wardens then, those men – those bodies we left. I thought I recognized the uniforms.’ The shoreman looked at the unconscious figure by Rhavvan. ‘He’s one too. What are Wardens doing up here? Who are you people? What’s going on?’

  ‘There’s a tent – and food, but no wood,’ Nordath called out.

  ‘This lot won’t burn,’ Rhavvan said, tugging at
a clump of the tough grass.

  ‘Where can we find firewood around here?’ Hyrald asked the shoreman, ignoring his questions. We’ve got to get Thyrn dry and warm. I’ll answer your questions then.’

  The shoreman peered into the mist, orientating himself.

  ‘That way,’ he said eventually, standing up and pointing. With a final pat he swung the boat on to his back. ‘I’ve got a shelter you can use. It’s not much, but there’s wood there, and some food and water. It’s not far.’

  As they followed him, leading the horses, the mist began to yellow and then to clear, revealing a blue sky and a late afternoon sun. It was a welcome sight and the warmth it brought began to ease the mood of the group. Hyrald looked back, but though he could hear the distant clamour of the sea, he could see only sand dunes and the dull grey haziness of the mist. Rhavvan scrambled to the top of the highest nearby dune and peered around.

  ‘I can’t see anyone,’ he reported when he came down. The shoreman watched him warily.

  ‘There were only three of us.’ It was the young Warden.

  ‘Back with us, eh?’ Rhavvan said, almost heartily. ‘Slept through all the fun.’

  The Warden grimaced in pain as he dropped down from the horse. Rhavvan caught him. ‘You may as well ride,’ he said.

  The Warden scowled at him and shook his hand free. ‘Wherever you’re taking me, I’d rather walk.’

  ‘We’re not taking you anywhere,’ Hyrald said. ‘You’re free to go anytime you want to.’ He pointed to the shoreman. ‘But that man just saved all our lives and now he’s offering us shelter. It’s up to you whether you accept it or not but, if you’re leaving, the least you can do is thank him.’