by Roger Taylor
The stairs led directly into a broad corridor along which, as she recalled, used to be administrative offices. The only difference between her memory and its present appearance was that now it was brilliantly lit by two rows of globes. Strangely, she found that this was an improvement.
Less of an improvement, however, was the figure seated at a desk which blocked her further progress. He was the most unlikely clerk that Sylvriss had ever seen. His uniform was immaculate, but it could not begin to disguise the bulge of his arm and shoulder muscles. He sat motionless except for his powerful, hairy hands which guided a quailing pen painstakingly but unerr-ingly across a report form. Topped with short-cropped black hair and fronted by a battered and scarred face, an oval head sported the remains of a nose, a full-lipped and vicious mouth, and dark jowls through which beard was fighting a powerful counter-attack after the morning’s onslaught.
Sylvriss stood in front of the desk but the head, though clearly aware of a presence, did not stir. The hand moved steadily on. How sweet, she thought maliciously. He wants to play a game.
She cleared her throat discreetly and very deeply. The head, rapt in spurious concentration, slowly looked across to another document and then, satisfied with what it had seen, equally slowly returned to its work.
Time’s up, thought Sylvriss. Coming ready or not. And she brought her riding crop smartly down on the desk between the carefully placed hands. With some satisfaction, she saw the eyes widen with disbelief, and the whole frame swell with rage. Then, with calculated anticipation, the eyes followed the riding crop slowly upwards until they met her own steady gaze. Very professional, she thought, a second later. The man had almost totally recovered his composure by the time he had stood up and saluted.
‘My apologies, sir… ma’am,’ he barked. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’
Sylvriss nodded. ‘Yes. I noticed,’ she said signifi-cantly. ‘At ease, Sirshiant. Perhaps you’d take me to the duty officer.’
‘Ma’am.’ He saluted again and stiffly bent forward to open a small gate to allow the Queen to pass by his desk. ‘If you’d follow me.’
Sylvriss made a wilfully stately progress with her bulky escort, pausing frequently to examine a notice board here, or to peer down a staircase there, or to run a very female finger along a ridge and examine it knowingly. The Sirshiant struggled with this gait, so different from his normal martial stride. Obviously he couldn’t march and, equally obviously, he couldn’t stroll casually by her side like some courtier. In the end he oscillated between the two, and developed a peculiar twitch of the hands in so doing.
His behaviour told her a great deal about her status within the Mathidrin, as did that of those they passed on the way, all snapping to attention. She acknowledged each with a nod and a direct look in the eyes, marking each face and response for future reference.
I’ll rot your corpse from its very head, Dan-Tor, she thought.
She was particularly struck by the look of uncer-tainty clearly visible in every gaze. Fear is the bonding of this structure, she realized suddenly, and, as if on cue, the Sirshiant stopped at a door and licked his lips before knocking.
The same look was in Commander Urssain’s eyes, but briefly it gave way to a ruthless shrewdness, before a calculating blankness hid everything. Without knowing why I’m here, he’s already thinking how he can turn my visit to his advantage, the Queen thought, as he came forward and bowed politely.
‘Majesty. This is an unexpected surprise. You do us great honour,’ he said. ‘I’m Commander Urssain.’
‘Yes, Commander, I remember you,’ Sylvriss replied. ‘I recall your promotion ceremony.’ And I recall wondering what you’d done to deserve such promotion so quickly, she thought. Nothing pleasant, I’m sure.
Urssain had the confident, arrogant presence that seemed to be the predominant feature of the Mathidrin, but she could sense he was aware of it and was attempt-ing to control it. The room, too, bore signs of a personality in transition. Spartan and functional, but furnished with a strange mixture of brash cheapness and tasteful elegance. The whole looked incongruous, but she realized that Urssain was learning a new trade. The room represented the first fumbling steps on a ladder of unknown height. One of the rising stars. Would he flare and dazzle for a brief instant, or would he take a permanent place in a constellation that would hover around Dan-Tor?
‘I hope I’m not disturbing your routine, Com-mander,’ she continued. ‘I’m afraid I’ve called purely on impulse. It’s such a long time since I’ve been in the Westerclave, and it used to be such a dismal place. It occurred to me as I was passing that as your Com-mander-in-Chief I really should see how you’re all faring here.’
Urssain opened his hands in a gesture of resigna-tion. ‘We’re all soldiers, ma’am. Any place that feeds us and keeps out the weather is a good place. I’m afraid we’re rather insensitive to our surroundings generally.’
I can see that, you thug, she thought, taking in the room again.
‘But I appreciate your concern, ma’am. As will the men also.’
‘Perhaps you could spare a little time to show me round,’ Sylvriss said.
‘Ma’am.’ Urssain clicked his heels and bowed deeply to hide the look in his eyes which he knew was beyond his ability to control.
Out in the corridor again, Sylvriss could hear the place buzzing and hissing with news of her unexpected arrival. It’ll be interesting to see what Dan-Tor makes of this, she thought. But the very thought made her stomach turn over. This visit’s an impulse, she repeated to herself. Somewhere between foolish female curiosity and an equally foolish female wish to do something for the men over whom she was in charge, albeit only nominally. I must act accordingly.
As she toured the building, her memory of the place returned somewhat. Very little had changed, though it was cluttered with all the paraphernalia of a permanent barrack. The main difference was the bright lighting that illuminated every cranny. It is an improvement, she thought again. It was the first time she had ever seen Dan-Tor’s globes enhance anything. Yet though they clarified, they did not enliven. Rather, they heightened an unpleasant inner bleakness, a harshness in the building. Your lights expose your own soul here, Dan-Tor, she thought. But the discovery chilled her.
She insisted on going down into the cellars to exam-ine the kitchens, this being decidedly a foolish woman’s prerogative. While there she noted carefully the faces of the servants. It was the only place in the building where she had seen other than Mathidrin.
‘I suppose that big beggar’ll complain he’s being poisoned again.’ The voice came faintly through the rattling din of the kitchen and Sylvriss bent forward hastily to peer into a bubbling, anonymous concoction to hide her interest. Casting round, her eyes lit on a surly-faced individual picking up a tray carrying four dishes. Dishes that were more elegant by far than the unadorned and battered metalwork that was hung and stacked about the place.
Straightening up, she allowed her gaze to fall acci-dentally on the man who was heading towards a nearby door.
‘Oh, you’ve someone sick, Commander?’ she said, indicating the man as he pushed open the door with his foot and began down a flight of steps. There was a flicker in Urssain’s eyes. ‘Surely you don’t have your sick bay downstairs? So far below ground?’ Before Urssain could answer, Sylvriss took maternal charge of the situation. ‘Sick men, Commander, need fresh air and sunshine. They should be where they can see the Palace gardens and the parks. Where they can stroll and convalesce.’ As she spoke, she moved slowly but steadily towards the door which the servant had used, venturing at one stage to take Urssain’s elbow with a guiding hand. The look in Urssain’s eyes bordered on the frantic, but he kept the rest of his face under control.
At the door, Sylvriss paused, waiting for someone to open it for her. She could almost feel Urssain’s mind racing. Then she heard him take a very deep, quiet breath through his nose and, leaning past her, he took the door handle in his powerful hand and opened t
he door briskly.
He smiled. ‘I’m afraid we’ve no one sick, ma’am. That’s to say… ’ He acted out an apologetic little fluster. ‘… I’m glad we’ve no one sick. The food on the tray was for prisoners.’
On those dishes, she thought. ‘Prisoners?’ she ech-oed, stepping back a pace. ‘You keep prisoners here? Why not in the Palace cells?’
‘They’re just military prisoners in transit, ma’am,’ Urssain replied, extending his arm down the stairway to indicate he was awaiting her pleasure to show her the offenders in question. ‘There are always one or two who have to learn their discipline the hard way. They’ll only be here for a few days, and it’s easier for us to keep them here than over in the cells.’ Then, frankly, ‘And to be honest, we prefer to look after our own.’
‘Yes,’ said Sylvriss uncertainly, backing out of the door and looking as if she wished to change the subject. ‘I’m sure I can leave such matters in your capable hands, Commander.’
Urssain was barely aware of the rest of Sylvriss’s tour of the building and was almost surprised when he found himself unnecessarily cupping his hands together to offer his Commander-in-Chief a support from which to mount her horse.
‘Thank you, Commander,’ said Sylvriss, looking down at him. She appreciated the fleeting look of triumph in his eyes. ‘I hope my visit hasn’t caused too much disruption to your routine.’ Then looking at the scarred facade of the Westerclave she said reflectively, ‘It isn’t the happiest of buildings, Commander, but I think you’ve made the best you could of it. Please accept my congratulations.’
Urssain saluted briskly and the Queen rode off. He watched her as she headed towards one of the side gates, gently urging her horse into a trot. Women, he thought. She’d come so close to blundering into those damned Lords. Dan-Tor would’ve had my head pickled in a bottle, or worse, if she’d found them. He congratulated himself on his nerve and his luck, but mainly on his nerve-to have opposed the woman at that door would surely have been to provoke her into going through it. Yes, he’d handled that very well.
* * * *
Sylvriss cantered through the streets towards her favourite park almost oblivious of her surroundings. She had the servant’s face, she had the place, and her act had convinced Urssain well enough. It had been a useful and revealing venture, for all her heart was still pounding. But what would Dan-Tor make of it?
Chapter 31
The death of Etron and the subsequent death of his killer was like the start of a fever in the City. The mutual disdain with which the High Guards and the Mathidrin had treated one another slipped easily into almost open warfare.
The more decorative and ornamental Guards were easy prey for the Mathidrin. Outraged by the abuse and scorn levelled at them loudly and publicly, they would eventually respond with some form of ineffectual violence and finish up being soundly trounced for their pains. Beatings and woundings grew daily.
The older Guards, and those whose Lords kept to the old traditions, were, in general, less abused and more able to handle such abuse as did come their way. However, they took the hurts deeply, and slowly and inexorably the Mathidrin found their swaggering domination of the City being resisted by a quiet and grim opposition. The more experienced Guards might be difficult to provoke into street brawling, but they began to ensure that no insult to their own went unanswered.
Apart from the avenging of Etron’s death, their reprisals were almost good-humoured, and offending Mathidrin were found wandering in conspicuously public places bound and trouserless, or covered in paint or horse manure, or otherwise bizarrely decorated.
This interlude, however, passed all too quickly, and soon there accumulated a bloody, if covert, record of wounding for wounding and, eventually, killing for killing. The Mathidrin soon found how to provoke the High Guards into open and public combat. They turned their attentions increasingly to the citizens of Vakloss. Anyone who failed to step aside quickly enough, or who did not have a sufficiently respectful look on their face, or who happened to be conveniently available, was liable to be roughly handled, and anyone who offered any protest or resistance would be severely beaten.
Shopkeepers and stallholders had their goods ‘commandeered’ and could look to have more taken, or their premises wrecked if they demurred. Fear began to spread through the streets of the City and the roads of the countryside like a fen mist-dank and evil-smelling.
Many of the Lords, frustrated by their own impo-tence, acquiesced in the silent vendettas being pursued by their Guards, but it took no great military experience to smell an organized ambush in the new tactics adopted by the Mathidrin.
‘Chew on your sword hilt.’ The order went out from Lord right down to cadet in troop after troop. The hope being that no response would cause the Mathidrin to abandon this strategy. All knew that it was only a faint hope and soon a certain fatalism began to possess the Lords as, rather than ceasing their actions, the Mathidrin increased them.
The Lords appealed to Dan-Tor and again he faced them individually and plied them with inconsistencies. ‘I’ll look into what you’ve reported, but there’s so much conflicting evidence. The Mathidrin have hard and unpleasant tasks to perform at times, rooting out disaffection and even treachery. They suffer a great deal of abuse and provocation from the people and they may well make mistakes from time to time, but… ’ a small gesture of admonition, ‘… they don’t always get the co-operation from your Guards that they might expect.’ Then a dismissive gesture of tolerant understanding. ‘However, I appreciate your men may be finding it difficult to adjust to their new roles. Soldiers are usually strong in pride.’
When pressed, he would grow stern, or perhaps confidential, with an affectionate arm placed around the shoulder. ‘I fear that difficult times lie ahead of us all. You must understand, there are forces at work that seek our very destruction.’ Then the well-established threat would seep into the edges of his reply. ‘These enemies are both without and within. More will become clear at the accounting of the Lord Eldric and his co-conspirators but, rest assured, there are more guilty parties than the four we have and I want none to escape because the Mathidrin are occupied dealing with the petty rivalries of the Guards.’
Thus the Mathidrin excesses continued and wors-ened, and the Lords’ faint hope fluttered out in the terrible winds that started to blow. From cadet right up to Lord came the message. ‘Lord, we can suffer our own humiliation, but the innocent are being trampled. We can no longer stand by.’ The Lords’ fatalism turned to black hopelessness-Dan-Tor’s subtle poisons took their toll and growing suspicion and doubt bound them with unseen shackles.
The High Guards, however, were not privy to such corrosive doubts, nor overly interested in the niceties of the Law. What was happening was manifestly wrong. Their Lords might not be able to act, but it was the sworn duty of the Guards to defend the people of Fyorlund.
So the citizens of Vakloss began to see an increasing number of High Guards casually patrolling their streets. The immediate significance of this did not become apparent until tales began to spread of Mathidrin being subjected to the treatment they themselves had been meting out. The clandestine war broke out openly and in earnest. Initially, clinging to a shred of their Lords’ will, the Guards used staves instead of swords but, with the inevitable action and reaction of violence, these were soon discarded and the distinctive sound of sword on sword began to ring through the streets with increasing frequency.
While the Mathidrin were superior in numbers and, as individuals, temperamentally inclined towards bullying and street brawling, the High Guards were better disciplined and better led, and invariably put their black-clad opponents to flight.
For a little while the streets became safe again as the Mathidrin retreated to lick their wounds. But, as if motivated by a sterner resolve than was apparent in their actual fighting, they reappeared in larger and more malevolently inclined groups.
Again their victims were the ordinary citizens of Vakloss whom they now
actively terrorized. Again the High Guards responded, but casualties were mounting and the superior numbers of the Mathidrin began to tell.
‘They’ll wear us down,’ became the view of the High Guards organizing the resistance. ‘There are just too many of them.’
Opinions were divided. Some were for continuing as at present, modifying their tactics to swift running attacks and ambush; others wanted to use their horses to make up for their smaller numbers. Others wanted to, ‘String our bows. Thin them out at a distance. They’re not fit to meet sword to sword anyway’. A faint murmur even began of a large decisive strike against the Mathidrin barracks and a confrontation with Dan-Tor, or even the King.
That was beyond the pale, and such talk was squashed with some vigour. But the words had been spoken and were not without tactical relevance. The older heads realized that what had begun as punishment patrols, justifiable, albeit of dubious legality, were, with talk of cavalry tactics and bowmen, sliding tragically close to becoming a major conflict and armed defiance of the King. The Lords would not be able to turn their gaze away from that. And yet, what else could be done? The more astute detected a pattern behind the Mathidrin’s behaviour. It was intended to provoke just this impasse. Death by attrition, or destruction through open rebellion. And it was working. Working very well.
The doubts among the officers led inevitably to indecision and a consequent fall in morale amongst the High Guards as their casualties grew and no effective response was ordered. Gradually the streets returned to the Mathidrin, now raucous in their triumph. But their laughter was as strained as it was harsh, and their arbitrary mistreatment of the people lessened as they too felt the atmosphere of the City becoming tense and heavy, full of foreboding, as though a storm were brewing, a storm waiting for that last tiny speck of moisture-laden dust to release the unrestrained fury of its accumulated power.
