by Chris Ward
‘With your pardon sira,’ he spoke quietly, ‘I am a visitor to this city, and I heard it said back here that you are one of the Wisden. I am honoured to be talking with you. I have heard only a little of what you do, but Revelyn owes a great debt to the wise ones like yourself.’
This flattery seemed to work well enough, for the old man smiled.
‘We do our best, but are not always understood. Not enough scholars these days. Too few prepared to take the time to sift and consider deeper things.’ He nodded in agreement with himself, and started off again, with less use of his stick than before. Rema began to think it was used more for show than any infirmity. He walked beside the old man and spoke light heartedly.
‘I must admit I am surprised to see one such as yourself out and about like this. I have always assumed that the Wisden would be kept apart from others, kept focused on the task if you understand my awkwardness.’ He was trying hard to sound innocent and rather dull witted.
‘My boy, the stories they tell of us! You’d be surprised. There are only eight of us now, all old indeed, but we enjoy getting out of our dingy rooms and mixing with others now and then. I myself am not so keen, but take my colleague Palid, you will find him most nights having an ale at the King’s Arms. No one sits with him of course; he’s not good company. A good mind has Palid, but a little weak for the drink. Now I have a meeting with someone, who is it again... that’s right, that old fool Zelfos. Not human if you ask me...’
At the mention of the name Zelfos, several people close by glanced up fearfully, and somewhere overhead a crow squawked loudly. Rema jumped and felt the hairs on his neck stand tall. By the time he had recovered, the old man, one of the fabled Wisden was disappearing up a steep alley toward the White Palace which towered above them all. He was not using his walking stick at all.
*
Serenna was horrified. ‘Rema, the King’s Arms is the last place you should go. It is not like other drinking halls. It is a place for soldiers and the king’s friends. It is close by the main soldier’s barracks and is guarded by the Night Guard. What can you possibly achieve by this? She was angry too. ‘You’ve only just escaped death and capture, and that’s by keeping ahead of them, not by walking unarmed into their camp. Sylvion needs you alive. We all do. Why do this? It is madness.’
Rema was standing by the window through which he had only recently entered, just after nightfall. His half-formulated plan was desperate, and Serenna was dismayed, but he could see no other way.
‘I need to see the prophecy Serenna, whatever happens from now on is in some way defined by it. I cannot fight against it. I need to know it all. I can’t help Sylvion without that knowledge. Even Revelyn itself is subject to the prophecies of old. People talk about it in jest, but it’s true. My path is hard enough...has been hard enough. I need to know. If I can speak with this Wisden Palid, I might be able to learn some more…’ He turned and went to his cousin and held her. After a time he stood back and asked simply.
‘How do I find this place, the King’s Arms?’ But Serenna was not about to give up.
‘Did you hear what I said? The people that go there are known. You are no soldier, you are a stranger; you don’t fit in. All reasons aside, can’t you see how foolhardy this would be? Please listen to me Rema.’ Her face was wet with tears as she pleaded. ‘Rema I left you once and regretted it every day. When I heard that they had set the Wolvers after you I was so very scared. How you came through that, I don’t know; but no more. This will be the death of you.’ She slumped onto the bed and put her head in her hands. Rema felt a great sorrow for her. He went and knelt before her, and holding her hands, spoke gently.
‘Serenna remember. Remember how we grew up together. We cheated death so many times. We leapt across chasms which should never have been leapt across. We climbed mountain sides after the Orax, and wore them down. You always led me on, always laughed in the face of danger. I could never persuade you to slow down or think of what might happen. You always laughed, and I always had to follow, fearful at times that I would lose you. Now this once, you must follow me.’
Serenna looked up slowly, and saw his resolve. And she remembered.
‘There might be a way, she whispered, but it will be the end of us both if you fail.’
‘Some ends are just a beginning Serenna; tell me your plan.’
Rema was dismayed when he first saw the Night Guards outside the King’s Arms. There were two, in full battle armour and matching war swords which were clearly not ceremonial. They stood like statues, feet apart, both hands on the hilt, sword point on the ground between their legs. They were not giants, but almost, and Rema was reminded of the many frightening boyhood stories of trolls. Once common in the highlands of ancient Revelyn, they had long since disappeared, passed on to other places, out of memory, but they could hardly have been more fearsome than these creatures.
He had found the tavern easily with Serenna’s directions, and now approached as boldly as he could despite his pounding heart. He wore his cloak, which seemed to have changed in texture, for Rema noticed upon it a common Lowlander pattern in a drab colour, which he was sure, was not there before, and around his neck, hung on a purple ribbon, the bronzed and gold embossed Guild-medallion which belonged to Serenna’s husband Jycob Menin. Serenna had assured him that the bearer would be granted a certain amount of deference, and as the owners were not well known, but the medallions were, there was at least a reasonable chance of his surviving any initial scrutiny. But Rema knew that much depended upon his demeanour and behaviour, and right now he felt a deep fear. The words of his cousin resounded in his ears; this will be the death of you.
Rema ignored the Guards. They did not do the same for him, but he was not challenged, and so he entered into a tavern the likes of which he had never experienced before. It was large and crowded and noisy; warm, and full of the smell of beer and ales, pipe smoke, and bawdy laughter all woven through with witty sarcasm. For the first time since he had come to Ramos he sensed no fear. It was a place which spoke of confidence and superiority. A large fire roared fiercely in a giant hearth on the far wall, between two enormous stacks of careful hewn timber logs. A few looked up as he entered, and he sensed immediately that he was out of place, but an oddity rather than a problem. He heard a faint joke or two at his expense, but within moments he was ignored. As his heart quietened and his confidence grew, he knew that he must act the part, or he would soon be discovered.
Rema walked purposefully up to a very long and heavily polished timber counter. He found himself standing before a huge man with a wide face and heavily browed forehead. He was dressed like no other publican he had ever seen, for he wore not just the customary apron, but a wonderful tunic of many colours overlaid by belts and braces, which in turn were highlighted with small cloth patches, which seemed to indicate battles and awards of past times. His arms were like oaken planks and the distance across his shoulders was about the same as the handle of a war axe. Rema reasoned that he would take no nonsense, but would deal it out with little fear of injury. The huge man squinted carefully at the newcomer, and spoke with the voice of a cave bear.
‘Welcome stranger for that you be. I have not seen you here before, and I know all who cross my threshold. I take it you would be after a drink, Mr. ....’ the publican inclined an ear and waited for a name. Rema had expected at least this much, and so began his deception. He leaned confidently on the counter with both hands ensuring that the medallion was easily seen without being too showy.
‘No sira, tonight I would like not one drink. I think two ales two start, strong mind, and not the pints, I’ll have a quiver each, and as for my name...’ Rema paused and then leaned closer as though to take the giant into a confidence; the other instinctively leaned forward as well... ‘Tonight I’ve escaped from the wife, I want no report of me to get back you see, and each day my business is full of names. Just for a night I want to be someone else, I’m sure you’ll understand.’ He drew himself up t
all and smiled right into the large and ruddy face of the other. ‘So two ales to start and I’m sure I’ll be back for more; I must say this is a very impressive place you have here.’ Rema turned to survey the scene once more, hoping desperately that he had not offended the publican, for he knew that one punch from that fist would most likely send him all the way back to the Highlands.
There were mostly soldiers in the Tavern, and not the lowly foot soldiers either. This was for the elite. The uniforms were worn with style, brass burnished, belts and leather highly polished. He noticed with a start, that a group of Wolvers held the floor by the fire, their long and lanky features relaxed and fluid amongst the more formal stiffness of the regular officers.
‘Two ales sira.’ The voice of the publican came warmly. He turned and paid up, adding a little extra, which was well received. ‘I see you wear the Guild-medallion of Petros. We see a few here now and then.’ Rema was relieved that this was not an invitation to talk further, just a friendly comment, for the big man wiped his hand on the large apron and wandered off to serve elsewhere. Rema took a deep breath and with his two large quivers of ale, one in each hand, walked purposefully towards the fireplace. He had decided that it would be best to be seen; to hide away on one of the side benches, which were more privately screened, would invite whispers and rumour he could do without. He reasoned it would be better to be seen as a confident merchant who had nothing to hide, and no fear of the present company; at least that was the plan, but Rema knew he was making it up as he went. Who knew what arrogance and prejudice lay around him, just looking to equal a score, or win a bet for a dare?
He stood for a moment before the fire, placing one ale on the thick oak mantel above the roaring flames, his back toward the throng. He took a good draught of the other and almost choked; it was stronger than he thought possible. He heard a sudden laugh and turned to see one of the Wolvers stand and move easily to his side, reach up and grab his other ale and pretend to take a drink. The huge man then acted out a much-exaggerated choke, and all the other Wolvers joined in laughing. Rema sensed the danger and knew instinctively that he must react the right way. If he took offense, he was dead. If he ignored it, he would look weak and invite further humiliation. As the laughter subsided, he spoke to the Wolver in mock seriousness.
‘Now why did you do that, for now we have to challenge each other and I will lose.’
The Wolvers smiled. This one was not a hothead, but knew of honour and such things. This could be very interesting. No one ever stood up to them. His words were good.
‘You keep my quiver, for I don’t how I can get it back, and I’ll race you with this one, whoever loses buys another round.’ Rema smiled at the Wolver who was enjoying the attention in front of the crowd, and here was a game he could not loose.
‘Alright medal-man, I think I’d like you buy me and my brothers here another ale.’ At this, the Wolvers gave a cheer, and quite a few in the crowd stopped their conversations and watched as the newcomer took on the Wolver. A few private bets were quickly placed but there was little money against the Wolver, and Rema knew that he must lose; but lose well, that way everyone was winner.
He made a rather theatrical show of deep breathing and practicing getting the big quiver up to his mouth, which brought laughs from several onlookers. The Wolver was taking it more seriously, but was relaxed for he could not see how he could lose. Rema nodded and they faced off. The tavern fell quiet. Rema moved first, and the Wolver made sure everyone could see that he gave the newcomer a clear head start. Rema did well for a while, but the ale was too strong and too plentiful, He stopped and gasped which brought roars of laughter, The Wolver just open his mouth, threw back his head, and poured the ale in. He seemed to be able to breathe and drink at the same time; everything about him was economical and fluid. Rema had another go but seemed to breathe it all in at the wrong moment, and started coughing; ale sprayed everywhere. Laughter rippled through the tavern. The Wolver could see an opportunity so he stopped, placed his ale on the mantle and put another log on the fire. This brought more raucous calls, and much laughter. Rema had a third go, and this time he was able to keep at it. The Wolver suddenly realised that his showy move was a little foolhardy and quickly downed the last of his ale, resumed his seat, and putting his feet on the bench before him, pretended to be asleep as Rema finally downed the last mouthful. He stood facing the crowded room, and upended the quiver, to show to all that he had at least done the deed expected. The cheering was brief, but accepting. Rema signalled across the tavern to the publican who had watched with some concern, for the Wolvers were a handful if not treated with respect. Eight ales, all in quivers, arrived soon after, and that was an end to it, the Wolvers returned to their own conversation, except for the winner, who stood once more and spoke briefly to Rema, as they stood before the fire. He spoke most strangely, which took Rema completely by surprise, for it was so unlike the manner in which he expected any Wolver to talk. His voice was hard like steel, but it carried an emotion, which told of shock.
‘I like your style medal-man. Not many would take us on like that. I can see you know how to judge a situation. I only wish my brother had your judgement, for I fear when he had the need, he did not have it.’ Rema realised that the Wolver was only half talking to him, for he was staring into the fire and sipping the fresh ale thoughtfully.
‘Your brother?’ Rema inquired without looking at the Wolver.
‘Six days ago he went into a forest with two others, chasing a man, and he never came back. None of them came back. They were the best we had. He must have done something wrong, really wrong, but how can that be, for he was a Wolver? Three Wolvers against just one man?’ He stood shaking his head slightly in disbelief at the impossible.
In that moment, Rema felt a deep cold fear. Was this man playing with him? Did he know? How could he? His heart thumped noisily against his chest, and ever so briefly, he thought that the Wolver sensed his panic. He was about to say that he was sorry for the Wolver’s brother, but then he knew that was a lie, so he remained silently staring into the flames. The Wolver sipped once more, and then walked off back to join his kind, without another look or a word. Rema turned slowly around, and spied a rather gaunt looking old man sitting by himself at one of the more private side benches. He took his empty quiver and went across and joined him.
‘Good evening sira, do you mind if I join you?’ The man looked surprised, but nodded. Rema sat opposite him and breathed a gentle sigh, for this was undoubtedly Palid, the Wisden for whom he had risked so much to see, and he knew that the next part of the deception would be much more difficult.
Palid was well named, for his skin was quite white, and showed a blue vein pattern on the back of his hands and neck. His eyes were tired and hooded, the result of endless hours reading and scouring ancient texts in poor light. But for all of that, they were intelligent eyes, and Rema understood that this man should not be judged on his appearance.
‘I have seen a few try that,’ said Palid quietly sipping on a large ale, ‘try to stand toe to toe with a Wolver. You did rather well my friend, there was humiliation waiting close by, but you seemed to have understood how to weave your ways around her!’ His eyes sparkled, and putting down the drink he took up a long stemmed pipe, and begun puffing contentedly, sending small grey clouds of sweet smelling smoke towards the rafters. Rema caught the attention of a passing steward and ordered another two ales.
‘It was a little tricky sira,’ he said respectfully, ‘but all’s well.’
‘You wear the Guild–medallion, I heard them talk, so I take it that you are in favour with our king.’ Palid spoke firmly. It was statement requiring no answer, so Rema let it stand.
‘And I see that your are Palid, one of the fabled Wisden, and I am honoured to share a drink with you siraa.’ Palid did not react beyond a narrowing of his strangely opaque eyes whilst sucking deeply on his pipe, before exhaling the most perfect smoke ring Rema had ever seen. Then he removed the pipe an
d stroked his short white beard with a blue-veined hand. There was silence for a time before the old man spoke again in a quiet and considered voice.
‘You know my name, which means that you came here to see me. This little show of yours was just a means to an end. I thought it unusual. How can I help you? The king’s favoured will receive what is required from even the Wisden.’ There was a coldly sarcastic edge to his word’s, which gave Rema some comfort. This man was no lover of Lord Petros. Rema took a deep breath and went on.
‘The king has ordered all who carry his medallion, that we are to support his cause, and to this end he has spoken of a prophecy which seems to have played heavily upon his mind. Sira, I am not well endowed with a good memory and I have found it hard to recall all he said. I fear that he will require more of me than I am able to give unless I have a fuller understanding of this prediction, this prophecy. I would like to retain his favour as best I can, so when today, by chance, I met another of the Wisden and he mentioned to me that you sira, often come here in the evenings, I thought, well I hoped, I might discuss this thing with you.’ At that moment, the two ales arrived and Rema slid one across to Palid. ‘I would be most obliged.’
Palid sat in thought for so long that Rema finally stood, anxious to leave, and excusing himself. ‘I am sorry to have troubled you siraa, I see that my request is not well made.’ He only took one step before Palid’s white and bony hand reached quickly over and firmly grasped his elbow.
‘Sit down friend, for I perceive you to be one who needs my assistance.’ His voice cut like a knife but was audible only to Rema. It was a command that he could not ignore. Nor did the Wolver, who had just won eight quivers of ale miss this small but sudden action, and with a growing interest, he watched whilst the two men at the side-bench talked.
‘I do not wish to know your name, or your business my friend, but I sense that there is something about you which might turn the tide in this sorry Kingdom.’ Palid spoke quickly in hardly more than a whisper. ‘The Wisden have been under great pressure of late to reveal the truths hidden in the prophecy of which you speak. Lord Petros has demanded that we do not rest until we have lain out clearly before him what is to be. He is a fool who does not understand that the wisdom of the seer is not commanded. Yes, that’s right, I call him a fool for amongst all the Wisden, I know this to be true. He is right to fear the prophecy, for it is powerful indeed, but it can be thwarted, although I do not know how.’ The old man was breathing faster now and Rema was spellbound. Here was an ally, not an enemy, right in the lion’s den.
