by Roger Taylor
‘Thyrn.’ He spoke softly. ‘I know you’re afraid. We’re all afraid. It’s understandable after what we’ve been through. But you’ve done well. You’ve run with us, hidden with us, eaten and slept with us. Done better than many a Senior Cadet.’ He paused and searched into Thyrn’s eyes for signs that he was being heard. But he could read nothing.
‘We’re safe here for the moment. Safer than we’ve been since we started. But we have to think what to do next. And to do that we have to know why we’re running.’ He became confidential. ‘I don’t want you to break your Caddoran Oath. I wouldn’t ask you to do that. I know it’s very important to you. But we’ve all got to help one another. Even if you don’t want to help yourself, think about your uncle. He…’
A hand on his shoulder stopped him.
‘No,’ Nordath said firmly. ‘He’s had nothing but that off his parents and his teachers all his life. Let me speak to him.’
Hyrald looked into the unfocused eyes again. He felt guilt well up inside him. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, patting Thyrn’s arm. ‘I made a mistake.’
Nordath took Hyrald’s place in front of the immobile young man. Rhavvan made an impatient gesture and strode off. Hyrald motioned Adren after him.
Nordath’s hand fluttered uncertainly, then, a little awkwardly, he put his arms around his nephew. ‘Go where you’ve got to go, Thyrn. Come back when you’re ready. We’ll be here, waiting for you. We’ll take care of you.’
Equally awkwardly he released him and stood up, rather self-consciously.
‘Wewill take care of him, won’t we?’ he said to Hyrald.
Only years as a Warden prevented Hyrald from showing his doubts as he met Nordath’s gaze. It had occurred to him more than once in the days immediately following their flight from Arvenshelm that perhaps surrendering Thyrn might be a way of having the Death Cry against him and the others lifted. He was honest enough to admit that it was only the unexpected ferocity of the response to the Death Cry that had prevented him from doing this. As they had moved further away from Arvenshelm, the clamour and urgency had lessened but the day-to-day needs of hiding and surviving had remained, and the option of surrender had faded away as the group gradually became five instead of three and two.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘We’ve taken care of you so far. We won’t stop now.’
But some time later, as he abandoned Nordath to his vigil and joined Rhavvan and Adren on top of a nearby rise his mind was awash with doubt.
‘Why so fierce?’ he said. Rhavvan frowned and Adren looked at him blankly.
‘Why were the crowds so fierce when the Death Cry was announced? If we hadn’t been warned – given that little extra time – we’d have been…’ A sideways cutting action of his hand finished the sentence.
Rhavvan shrugged airily. ‘Not everybody loves a Warden,’ he declared mockingly. ‘The ordinary Cry doesn’t exactly bring the best out in people, does it? You know how long it takes us to get the streets quiet after one.’
Hyrald looked down at Thyrn and Nordath by the ramshackle shelter, then at the surrounding landscape. The view beyond the shelter was restricted by gently hilly terrain, lush with trees and shrubs, but in the other direction the colour gradually faded until it ended in the pale line of the dunes. In a dip between two of them, Hyrald could just see the bright line of the sea. It was good here. Open, undisturbed, even the air was different – so very different from the soiled and oppressive streets of Arvenshelm. Yet too, it was frightening. It was empty and lonely. It left him feeling exposed and vulnerable, thrown totally on his own resources. And the glint of the distant sea at once lured him and repelled him, filling him with vague images of great and alien spaces.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, returning to his friends. ‘It wasn’t just the ordinary mob. It was as though…’ he searched for the words. ‘… as though something fearful had been released. There was a real bloodlust in those we saw when we were hiding in the Old Park.’ He shivered at the memory, then he became thoughtful. ‘I wonder how many people got killed in all that, in the general crush, by mistaken identity?’
‘Not to forget the score-settling. There’s always some of that in any Cry. I should imagine a lot were hurt. It’s just one of those things. Anyway…’ Rhavvan threw a suddenly cheerful arm around Hyrald’s shoulders, making him stagger. ‘What’s the problem? People are bastards at the best of times, you know that. Whack you as soon as look at you if they thought it was to their advantage. They have to run amok from time to time. It’s enough for me that we got away.’
‘You’re cynical.’
‘I’m a Warden, and I see people for what they are.’ A jabbing finger emphasized his point. ‘As do you, normally.’
‘Maybe,’ Hyrald conceded reluctantly. ‘But there was still something more. Worse than I’d have expected – realist or no.’
‘You’re right.’ It was Adren. ‘I hadn’t thought about it until now, but itwas worse than the usual mob that comes out for the Cry – much worse.’
Rhavvan threw up his hands, dismissing the two of them.
‘It’s been brewing for months,’ she went on. ‘Perhaps years.’
‘What has?’ demanded Rhavvan, increasingly exasperated.
‘Trouble,’ Adren replied simply. ‘Year on year since I joined there’s been more violence and discontent. And we’ve had more drunks, more beatings, more crowd flare-ups, more everything this last year than ever before – you know that. It’s as though there’s something in the air – like a storm coming.’
‘Horse manure,’ Rhavvan declaimed. ‘That’s all there is in the air – horse manure. And the warm weather always makes people fractious.’ He slapped the purse on his belt. ‘A nice heat-wave’s always good for business. More overtime, more fines, voluntary contributions, and the like.’ He laughed.
The sound should have lightened the mood of the group a little, but the clink of coins in Rhavvan’s purse had a dull, funereal timbre to Hyrald, reminding him that money was of no value to them now. Here it was only something more to be carried – another burden. And Adren was unconvinced by Rhavvan’s airy analysis.
‘There’s a restlessness about,’ she insisted doggedly. ‘I don’t know what it is, but something’s falling apart. And all this business about the Morlider and what’s going on in Nesdiryn hasn’t helped. In fact, I think that’s…’
A loud cry from Nordath cut across her.
Chapter 6
It was Close of Moot. Early today. The last few grains of sand in the hourglass which stood by the Throne of Marab had to be encouraged on their way by a surreptitious flick of Striker Bowlott’s middle finger but if anyone saw, no one was interested in raising any elaborate procedural points about it. As usual, most of the Senators were only too anxious to be away to fulfil their various social and business commitments. Being a representative of the people was demanding work.
The current speaker froze, gaping in mid-word and mid-gesture as the end of Bowlott’s staff struck the floor. An audible sigh of relief passed around the Moot Hall, dappled with the sounds of various Senators waking suddenly. The doleful peal of the Moot bells carrying the news through the corridors of the Palace seeped into the hall.
As he always did at close of Moot, Bowlott sat motionless until the sound of the bells faded into the general mumbling background of the hall, then his beady eyes scanned the noble and expectant assembly two or three times before, very slowly, he began to lever himself upright. Krim’s deputy creaked forward to take the cushion that had been supporting Bowlott’s head, lest it slip forward and mar the dignity of the occasion by entangling itself in his robes like a workman’s pack, or by slithering down behind him and nudging his backside. It was a heavy cushion and its urging had more than once caused Striker Bowlott to waver unsteadily on his footstool at this juncture.
Today, however, there was no such lapse, though Krim’s deputy, compounding Bowlott’s malicious slowness with his own natural frailty, stretched out the e
nding of the day’s business even further as he meticulously performed the ritual of the storing of the cushions. It was then his duty to escort the Striker from the hall. This involved walking down the long central aisle and was made all the slower by his tendency to drift from side to side, thereby, on average, increasing the length of the journey by about a third.
Eventually, however, they reached the entrance to the hall and the Assistant Cushion Bearer concluded his duties by executing a series of formal bows – another ritual, but one during which he invariably became confused and opted for starting again with much apologizing and sighing. When he finally reached the end, Bowlott turned and exited the hall with unusual speed for fear that the old man might be confused enough to begin bowing again. It was a relief to stride out freely for a little while – it was not easy following the Assistant Cushion Bearer even for someone of Bowlott’s physical ineptitude. He really did not appreciate Krim missing the Close of Moot.
He had not gone far when he heard two sets of footsteps approaching from behind. He closed his eyes as he recognized both of them.
‘Striker Bowlott, can you spare a moment?’ Two voices, a droning tenor and a shrill descant bearing an unmistakable eastland accent confirmed his identification.
Bowlott surreptitiously increased his pace so that they had to scurry to catch him. ‘Inner Senator Welt, Inner Senator Bryk,’ he acknowledged, stopping suddenly as they reached him and watching their stumbling halt. ‘How may I help you?’
Though there were many little cliques and cadres in the Moot, there were three major factions. The Keepers, whose members were drawn mainly from the families of the larger merchants and traders, came predominantly from Arvenstaat’s cities and thus tended to dominate the Inner and Outer Moots. Then there were the Deemers who, typically, were clerks, lawyers and academics. As individuals, some of the Moot Senators were quite able, but a peculiarly incestuous blending of the Moot’s ancient procedures and traditional loyalty to particular factions, subverted ability utterly and grievously detached the Moot from reality. Of the three factions, the Deemers were by far the furthest away. The third faction consisted of the Strivers, its members drawn from Arvenstaat’s small traders, artisans and farmers. Confined for the most part to the Moot General, they were much given to pompous and impassioned rhetoric liberally sprinkled with earthy metaphor. Most of them affected intimate knowledge of a rugged working lifestyle though their manicured hands and expensive, well-tailored robes usually gave the lie to this.
Senators Welt and Bryk were the respective leaders of the Keepers and the Strivers, for the time being allies against the Deemers. Both were effectively permanent members of the Moot and both were unlovely. Bryk’s bulging eyes and pursed mouth reminded Bowlott inexorably of a large, bad-tempered fish, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that he did not openly wince when his high-pitched and penetrating voice pierced its way through the Moot Hall’s dull air. Welt’s voice, by contrast, was profoundly soporific. Indeed, it was not uncommon for wagers to be made between the more frivolous Senators about the number of members that Welt would lure into sleep over any given time. He walked with a pronounced stoop but was still taller than Bowlott, and he had the look of a sad bloodhound.
They each took one of Bowlott’s elbows and bent forward intently.
He raised silencing hands before they could begin to speak. ‘Senators, I think I know why you wish to speak to me, but I have a pressing meeting on a most urgent matter.’ He looked from one to the other taking some pleasure in seeing them exchange a glance, and watching their curiosity displacing their fawning confidentiality. They would not question him directly – that kind of thing was just not done; part of the art of the Moot debate was the ability to ask questions without seeming to, and also not answering questions while seeming to. Under normal circumstances Bowlott would have enjoyed seeing how Bryk and Welt played this scene but he was genuinely anxious about his pending meeting with Vashnar.
Although there were extensive informal working arrangements between lower ranking Wardens and equally low ranking Moot Officers, the relationship at the top was starchily formal. The two institutions which governed Arvenstaat each tacitly understood what was expected of them and took great pains to provide it without trespassing on the other’s domain to any great degree. However, with Vashnar’s proclaiming of the Death Cry and the consequent stirring up of the people, this balance had been disturbed and Bowlott had been placed in the invidious position of being seen to be ‘doing something’. His immediate anxiety was not that he did not know what to do – that was normal – it was that he could not begin to start drafting a form of words that would look as if he did know. Vashnar’s action had been far too practical and conspicuous for that. Worse, he hardly knew the man; unlike these two dolts at his elbow, whom he knew all too well.
What were his weaknesses? Vashnar couldn’t be ambitious, for where could he rise to from his present position? Was he greedy? Possibly, but this post carried many privileges and was well rewarded even excluding the Gilding – the long-established network that directed into his hands ‘gifts’ from grateful merchants and others who received particular protection from the Wardens. Perhaps he was vain? But that was unlikely to be a powerful lever even if he was. Lecherous? Women, men, boys?
The latter in particular was a weakness amongst certain high-ranking Wardens, but it was a dangerous trait, very unpopular with the people, and even if Vashnar was so inclined, Bowlott reasoned that he would be far too cunning and well placed to leave any chance of exposure open for discovery. Added to which, for what it was worth, he was married.
It was a serious problem. He would have to make judgements about him as they spoke. This was something he quite enjoyed when meeting newly appointed Senators, full of enthusiasm and foolishness and easily crushed, but the Senior Commander of Arvenshelm’s Wardens…?
Despite these circling preoccupations, Bowlott could not resist tormenting his two companions by satisfying their curiosity while at the same time adding to it.
‘I’ve asked Commander Vashnar to come to my office at Close today, and I’m sure you’ll appreciate, it would be very discourteous of me to keep him waiting. However…’ He set off walking again, startling them both. ‘We can talk a little about your problems on the way.’ He kept his eyes forward and maintained an unexpectedly rapid pace as the two men flapped after him. ‘If I’m not mistaken, Senator Bryk, your members have been complaining about the number of their electors coming to speak to them about these Morlider rumours.’ He did not wait for a reply. ‘Tiresome business altogether. I sympathize. It’s hard enough running the country without having electors bothering you every day with their petty problems.’ He made an airy gesture. ‘They do not have our breadth of vision, you see, gentlemen. And you, Senator Welt, have the same problem, because of the decline in trade with Nesdiryn. One can understand this a little more, but again, merchants, traders, well-meaning souls though they be for the most part, have little grasp of the problems with which we have to wrestle, eh?’ He looked expectantly at his entourage. ‘Indulge me, have I read the times correctly?’
To his satisfaction there was quite a long pause before either replied. He could almost hear the clatter of confusion as their thoughts: ‘Vashnar. What does he want to see Vashnar for?’ vied with the need to answer his question.
Welt recovered first. ‘Indeed, Striker,’ he droned. ‘As ever, you have your ear firmly against the heart of the Moot.’ Bowlott inclined his head modestly. ‘But, if something has occurred of such importance that it requires you to meet directly with Commander Vashnar, we will, of course, not trouble you any further. Our concerns dwindle into insignificance.’
Bowlott waited.
‘However,’ Welt continued, ‘as Senator Bryk and I are here with you, fortuitously – the greater part of the Moot as it were.’ He made a peculiar rumbling sound which, even after many years of dealing with the man, Bowlott had to strive to remember was supposed to be a co
mradely chuckle. ‘Then perhaps we may be of assistance to you in your discussion with the Commander?’
Bryk, fish mouth seeking air, nodded in agreement.
Bowlott was surprised. This was a remarkably direct approach, especially from two such experienced Senators. Then again, he mused, they wouldn’t be the first Senators to become a little strange as a result of being obliged to talk to their electors. Such people could be very unsettling; they brought in the pettifogging irritations of the outside world like a cold draught.
He pretended to ponder Welt’s suggestion.
‘I appreciate your gesture, gentlemen, especially as I know you’re both very busy, but it would be…’ he stretched out the pause. ‘… inappropriate for you to become involved at the moment.’
That was enough, he thought. Keep them fluttering. He rapped his staff on the floor before either of them could pursue the matter. Out of habit, the two men stopped and bowed their heads at this signal of dismissal. Bowlott nodded to both of them and continued on his way. He allowed himself a peevish smile at the sound of scuffling and whispering behind him as the two men scurried off.
The smile vanished abruptly as just ahead of him Vashnar emerged from an adjoining passage. The Commander’s leisurely but purposeful stride carried him in like a dark cloud, and Bowlott had the impression that the pictures, tapestries and statuary that decorated the walls of the long hallway were drawing away from him watchfully as he passed, while at the same time, paradoxically, Vashnar’s bulk made everything look smaller. Involuntarily, Bowlott cringed. It was not an experience he was used to and it brought an immediate reaction. This washis domain. It was other people who cringed around here! Vashnar might be the Senior Warden Commander, but he still had things to learn about the Moot.
‘Commander,’ he called out, forcing himself to hurry forward.
