by Roger Taylor
Here and there, lamps were hanging from the lower branches, but there were also several shining high up within the labyrinthine structure, so that they looked almost like stars shining down through a forest canopy.
‘It’s like being under the roots of a great tree,’ Arwain whispered to Ryllans, involuntarily awed by the sight.
Ryllans nodded. ‘Remarkable,’ he said. ‘And an assassin’s paradise if there’s access to it.’
Arwain shot him a reproachful look, but the official escorting them, unabashed by the remark, said, ‘The only way in is well guarded, sir. It’s a long tradition.’
Ryllans bowed in acknowledgement.
‘Must you always have such dark thoughts?’ Arwain said to him when the official had left. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, and you fuss on about assassins.’
This time it was Ryllans who offered the reproach. ‘I never have dark thoughts,’ he said, smiling a little to show the lie. ‘It is indeed a rare sight. Beautiful, remarkable, intriguing, full of questions . . . and . . . an assassin’s paradise. If you can’t see that, then you’re not aware, and if you’re not aware, then you can’t see the true beauty. Every rose has a thorn.’
Arwain had no reply. He reverted to their interview with Haynar.
‘What did you make of the Maeran?’ he asked, settling back in his seat and watching the Councillors arriving.
Ryllans shrugged. ‘Hard to say,’ he answered. ‘Just being Maeran of Whendrak means he’s a shrewd, devious, ruthless individual, to say the least. And he’s a horse trader. Says as much between his words as he does with them. He told you he knew a lot about you and that you knew nothing about him in his very first sentence.’
Arwain nodded. ‘How did I manage?’ he asked.
‘Very well, I’d say,’ Ryllans replied. ‘Your straightforward approach was probably the best response against someone like him. And you certainly won us a hearing, perhaps more, by not losing your temper when he provoked you. We must listen very carefully to what’s going on here.’
Arwain looked around and frowned. ‘Listening’s one thing, hearing’s another,’ he said.
The remark was prompted by the growing noise in the Council Chamber which was now filling rapidly. Much of it consisted of noisy greetings and banter, the latter brought about mainly by the apparently early hour of the meeting.
There was, however, a general air of concern and anxiety about the place, which gradually began to deepen as the Chamber filled.
Little here that he hadn’t seen in many a Sened meeting before over some storm in a wine glass, Arwain mused, but, abruptly, the atmosphere changed, becoming suddenly tense and watchful as a group of men entered and, without offering any greeting to anyone, or even looking around, marched directly to their places.
They were dressed identically in grey uniforms and, to a man, their demeanour was arrogant and their expressions emotionless.
‘No debate about where they look to find their “sovereign remedy”,’ Arwain said, using Haynar’s words.
Any further discussion about the newcomers was forestalled, however, by the entrance of Haynar and several others on to the raised platform at the front of the Chamber.
The Chamber fell silent almost immediately, but a formally dressed guard on the platform raised his pike and dutifully struck its butt three times on the wooden floor.
The sound rose into the air and then echoed back down from the branches overhead, greatly magnified. As the sound died away, Haynar rose to speak.
He made little preamble.
‘My friends. May I first apologize for the short notice given for this meeting and for its ungodly hour. May I also thank you for your attendance.’ Arwain noticed immediately that his voice was carried evenly across the hall by some quality in the strange ceiling.
Haynar took a document from his gown and laid it respectfully on the lectern in front of him.
‘I have here a letter that I received yesterday. I called this meeting as I felt that you should all be made aware of its contents and be given an opportunity to discuss it fully as soon as possible.’ He looked down at the document. ‘It bears a signature that I can’t decipher, but the seal is authentically that of the Bethlarii Council of Five, the Handira.’
A murmur rose from the Councillors, but Arwain could not detect the dominant mood in it. He cast a discreet glance at the stern group that had just arrived. They were all sitting bolt upright, as if to lean back would represent some display of weakness or disrespect, confirming his initial impression that they were representatives of those Whendreachi who looked to Bethlar for the answer to such ills as their city suffered. They were all staring fixedly at Haynar.
‘“Vassals,” the letter begins,’ Haynar read. He put no inflection into the word, but the murmur rose again, unequivocally angry. He ignored it and continued.
‘“It has been made known to us that our citizens living within your bounds are being ill used by your people. They are being deprived of their livelihoods, homes, liberty, right of access to your courts, and, above all, the right to pursue their religious observations. You will cease this persecution immediately and make full reparation of all hurts before the solstice. You will also commence dismantling the new fortifications and defences that you have built about your city. If these instructions are not implemented immediately, then a military governor will be appointed in your stead.”’
There was a brief pause after Haynar finished, then uproar broke out. Sitting motionless amid the cries of outrage and anger, Arwain found himself back in Serenstad, standing behind his father as the Bethlarii envoy had approached him in a similar vein.
Haynar did not move or make any attempt to stop the noise for some time, then he nodded to the guard standing nearby.
Once again the guard banged his pike on the floor. The sound rose above the din and echoed down from the tangled branches overhead. It had little effect initially, but at a further nod from Haynar, the guard repeated the action with greater force, and the Chamber fell suddenly silent as the brief tattoo boomed out overhead like thunder.
Arwain and Ryllans exchanged appreciative glances. The Whendreachi Councillors were markedly more disciplined than either the Sened or the Gythrin-Dy.
As the sound faded, a flurry of hands rose into the air, but Haynar ignored them.
‘Allow me the first word, my friends,’ he said. ‘I’ll be brief.’ He tapped the Bethlarii document. ‘I’ll gloss over the tone of this missive, which, frankly, defies me. Let us consider just two facts. One: is it true that any of our citizens are being persecuted? Answer, no. Rather it is that certain factions which seek to take us under Bethlar’s grey sway have provoked violence against the persons and properties of those it sees as enemies to its cause; namely those whom they cannot defeat in debate here, in this Chamber. And they have brought to their aid those criminal and deranged elements which plague any community and who care nothing for any cause save violence and destruction. Two: the fortifications we have undertaken were at the agreed will of the great majority here. We are a neutral city under the Treaty between Bethlar and Serenstad and, in this particular, while we do not ally ourselves with either, we may do as we wish.’
Haynar’s manner throughout this short speech was calm but resolute, though a snarl of defiance permeated his final sentence. It captured the mood of his listeners and there was a loud burst of applause and cheering.
Haynar waited for it to subside. ‘My friends,’ he began again. ‘It has long been the wish of our people that we should never again be caught between these two great cities and their endless wars. And to this end we have striven to become strong enough to be independent of them both.’ He leaned forward on to the lectern. ‘And we have succeeded, my friends,’ he said slowly but with great power. ‘We have succeeded. We seek nothing but friendliness and trade with all the peoples of this land, be they allied to Bethlar or Serenstad, but we will destroy utterly anyone who turns his sword against us, from within or
without.’
More applause greeted this affirmation, but as it faded, a lone voice emerged. It was one of the grey-uniformed group. He was waving his fist angrily.
‘Haynar, you lie,’ he shouted. ‘You lie, and you lead this city to perdition with your ambition and folly.’
Cries of protest greeted this outburst.
‘No, I will be heard,’ the man went on, shouting louder, his voice echoing raucously from the strange ceiling.
‘You’ll be heard more clearly if you speak a little more quietly, Garren,’ Haynar said ironically, sitting down and casually extending a hand towards him.
The comment caused some laughter, which did little to improve the man’s temper. He raised his fist again. ‘You accuse us of violence against our opponents, but we have only armed ourselves because of the violence that was offered to us in the first place. When we are allowed to meet and worship in peace then we will no longer need this protection. You say we wish to bring the city under the protection of Bethlar. This is another of your lies. Rather it is you who wishes to bring us under the sway of Serenstad.’ His lip curled arrogantly. ‘A city riddled with corruption and decay, and ruled by merchants, Guildsmen, and an effete aristocracy. Whendrak is, by ancient right, a Bethlarii protectorate. Only when we return to that state and to the ways of our ancestors can we begin to root out the decadent and degenerate elements that have brought so many ills upon us, and move forward to our true place in the land.’
Arwain’s eyes narrowed in distress at the vehemence in the man’s voice.
‘Enough!’ Haynar’s voice rang out in exasperation as Garren gathered his breath for another onslaught. ‘We’ve heard all this nonsense before, Garren. You seem to think that if you tell a lie often enough and loudly enough, it will become the truth. Whendrak has been under the sway of both Bethlar and Serenstad many times through its history. Now, by their treaty, we’re a neutral city.’ He paused and put his hand to his head in a gesture of concern. ‘Even at this stage my old friendship for you and your family prompt me to offer you a word of personal advice.’ He leaned forward and his voice became unexpectedly passionate. ‘You’re a clever, capable man, Garren,’ he said. ‘You must surely see the rabble, the mad dogs, who follow your ridiculous baying, for what they are.’ Garren made to speak, but Haynar lifted a hand to prevent him. ‘Ponder this. How you are going to control them when their usefulness to you has passed? It’s far easier to unleash a wild animal than it is to recapture it.’
‘I will not listen to my supporters and friends being thus maligned,’ Garren shouted, his voice booming unpleasantly about the Chamber again.
‘And I’ll not listen to any more of your ranting, Garren,’ Haynar said, his voice softer than Garren’s, but somehow overtopping it. He slapped the document lying on the lectern. ‘This is directly due to your treachery . . .’
He hesitated, and his concern surfaced again briefly. ‘And do you imagine that the Handira give a fig for your petty, crawling obeisance and your ridiculous scheming? The only value that Whendrak has for them is its strategic position as a base to move against Serenstad. They’re using you to do their dirty work for them, that’s all.’ Anger and frustration burst through into his voice. ‘You’re not stupid, man. What do you think the Bethlarii are going to do with you and your troublesome followers? Honour you? Laud you?’ He struck his chest. ‘You know what they think about us with their fatuous tribal pride. We’re just so many mongrel half-breeds, marginally superior to their dogs, but fit only for use as slaves and arrow fodder.’
Garren leapt to his feet furiously. ‘Speak for your own kind, Haynar,’ he shouted. ‘We are all pure-born Bethlarii for ten generations . . .’
‘Not according to what my uncle says about your mother, Garren,’ came a voice from somewhere, with a sharp Whendreachi accent. The Chamber erupted in laughter, as much to release the tension built up by Garren’s manic utterances as at the humour of the comment.
Arwain watched Garren waving his fist and shouting, though he could hear nothing above the din.
The laughter splashed to and fro for some time until Haynar, smiling himself, eventually managed to wave it to silence.
‘I’ll waste no more of your time on this pointless debate,’ he said, sobering. ‘You have the facts before you and you must decide upon what we shall do. I ask you to confirm the policy which we have followed these past years. That we will stand firm and oppose anyone who would try to impose their will upon us. To help you in your discussion I have used my authority as Maeran to make a special decree.’
The Chamber became very still. Ryllans nudged Arwain gently and with a slight nod directed his attention back towards Garren and his group. Guards were entering quietly and standing along the aisle behind them.
‘We have food and water to sustain us through any siege,’ Haynar went on. ‘Arms to defend ourselves. And above all, newly strengthened walls that soon will repel even the heaviest artillery, the tallest towers, the deepest sappers.’ He paused. ‘But such walls are in truth only as strong as their gates. And gates are only as strong as the man’s arm that can draw the bolts. Treachery will be our greatest enemy in any conflict with the Bethlarii.’ He paused again. ‘My decree therefore is that Councillor Andreth Garren be deprived of his office and confined to his house pending formal impeachment and trial. So also his senior lieutenants. And for those of his followers who will not disavow their allegiance to him, and renew their allegiance to this Council, expulsion from the city.’
The guards behind Garren and his group moved forward and one of them bent down and spoke to Garren. Across the Chamber, Arwain saw him casting about as if for help from his fellows or for some route to escape. To no avail, however. After a further word from the guard, he and his entourage rose to their feet and, with returning arrogance, marched out of the Chamber escorted by the guards.
The announcement and the removal of Garren and his followers were greeted by the Councillors with a stunned silence.
As the door closed behind the departing group, Haynar spoke softly but purposefully. ‘Debate what you have heard, my friends,’ he said. ‘And choose well. Freedom and progress, with the responsibility that goes with both; or stagnant Bethlarii overlordship. I will return to hear your will in due course.’ He bowed his head for a moment, then turned and left the platform.
As he left, the silence began to disintegrate around the two watching Serens. At first gradually, then with a great rush like a breaking wave. Several Councillors left the Chamber hastily while all those that remained began talking urgently, and seemingly indiscriminately, to their neighbours on every side.
‘Gentlemen.’
Arwain turned. It was the official who had brought them into the Chamber. ‘Would you follow me, please.’
Though his voice was soft, his manner was urgent and Arwain and Ryllans followed him without question.
He led them out of the Chamber by a different door to the one through which they had entered and, as they followed him along passageways and down stairs, Arwain felt an increasing urgency in his pace.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘The Maeran will explain,’ the man said, politely.
Then they were walking rapidly down a narrow stone stairway and being ushered into a small courtyard. Their horses were waiting, saddled and ready, along with the platoon and a small group of mounted Whendreachi guards.
Haynar was there also. He stepped forward. ‘You must leave immediately,’ he said. ‘If I’m allowed I shall report your visit to the Council.’
Arwain queried, taken aback by this sudden change in events. He pointed back towards the Council Chamber.
‘I thought you were in charge here.’
Haynar smiled ruefully. ‘I am and I am not,’ he replied. ‘The decree I’ve issued against Garren is a considerable risk . . .’
‘You could have done nothing else,’ Ryllans interrupted unexpectedly.
‘You and I know this,’ Haynar sa
id, leading them to their horses. ‘We study our history. But . . .’ He shrugged. ‘We’ve got more than a few self-servers and weak-kneed appeasers in the Council. The vote’s going to be close. I can’t guarantee that we’ll stand against Bethlar even though we ought to.’
‘Don’t you have emergency authority as Maeran?’ Arwain asked, as he mounted his horse.
Haynar smiled again. ‘Garren’s a considerable orator. And his followers hold real power on the streets here. My authority’s only as effective as my ability to impose it if need arises. As I said in there, our security is no more than the strength of one traitor’s arm.’
He waved aside any further debate. ‘You must go now. There’s liable to be serious disturbances when the news of Garren’s arrest gets out and I can’t guarantee your safety. Tell your father what’s happening here. Most of us are with you and we’ll do our best to oppose Bethlar, but . . .’ He changed direction. ‘These guards will escort you to the gate. Go now.’
Arwain looked down at him. ‘Do you want our help, Maeran?’ he said significantly, laying emphasis on the last word.
‘No, damn it. We want neither of you,’ Haynar said bitterly. ‘But better you than them. And the treaty’s going to be no more than smoke in the wind soon if you don’t help. But tell your father to be careful. This is just a ploy to some deeper purpose, I’m sure.’
Arwain reached down and took Haynar’s hand. ‘I understand,’ he said.
The sound of shouting floated into the courtyard. Haynar nodded. ‘Go,’ he said, then he turned and ran back into the building.
As their escort led them out of the walled courtyard, the truth of Haynar’s words became apparent. There was an unmistakable tension in the air. Groups of young men were running about wildly while other people in the street were running to avoid them.
‘Ar-Hyrdyn, Ar-Hyrdyn.’ Arwain looked round to see where the chant was coming from.
‘Serenstad scum,’ came a cry.
A rock struck Arwain’s temple. He slumped forward on to his horse’s neck, blood pouring from his head.
