by Roger Taylor
A little later the three of them joined the Rede in his private rooms where he offered them food and drink. The room was cluttered with papers, documents and all manner of objects which indicated a full, active and acquisitive life. It needed no great powers of observation to see that no woman blessed the Rede's life and that he had once been a military man. The sheer disorder of the place demonstrated the first, while the second was apparent from the quantities of swords, knives, bows, axes, pieces of armour and countless other military relics that littered the place.
Hawklan noticed that those weapons which were obviously decorative and ceremonial were scattered about indiscriminately, lying on chairs, under tables, idling on shelves or standing sentinel-like in corners, while a handful of others, scarred and bruised in real earnest, were solicitously mounted in cabinets around the walls.
Pride of place seemed to go to a battered helm with a great leering dent spreading down from its crown to just over the left eye. Hawklan's gaze flickered to the Rede's forehead in search of a scar, but the man was sitting with his back to the window, and it was difficult to see his face.
'We ran into Mandrocs on one of the Watch Patrols into Narsindal,’ said the old man, answering the unspoken question and rubbing his head ruefully. The remark seemed to bring back old memories and the rubbing became pensive. ‘It was odd you know. Usually if we saw any at all they'd keep their distance—disappear into the mist. But this lot came out of nowhere, went straight for us, and then vanished before we could recover fully. Like skirmishers almost ... organized ... as if they were practicing on us. I've always felt that very strange...’ He fell silent.
Hawklan watched him for a moment before speaking. ‘I thought perhaps you'd been in the Morlider War,’ he said.
The Rede came out of his reverie abruptly. ‘Oh, I was,’ he said. ‘Later on.’ Then tapping his finger on the side of his nose, ‘But I was older and wiser then. Never let anyone get that close again, I can assure you, Hawklan.'
Hawklan's eyes widened at the sound of his name and Isloman casually rested his hand on his club. Tel-Mindor, sitting near the door, noted the movement and smiled briefly.
Rede Berryn leaned forward. ‘I was a training officer in the High Guards, Hawklan. I can hear a smart-alec whisper from eight ranks back.'
Hawklan shrugged apologetically. ‘I don't know what to say,’ he managed awkwardly.
The Rede picked up a small fruit from a dish by his arm and chuckled as he began to nibble it fastidiously, his eyes watching Hawklan steadily.
'I think the wisest thing you could say, Hawklan, is “Rede Berryn, I'm the worst spy and the worst actor in the whole world", then perhaps the two of us can talk some sense. Truth for truth.'
Hawklan smiled and nodded his head in acknowledgement. ‘I'd prefer it,’ he said. ‘I don't sit easily with deceit.'
The Rede chuckled. ‘No, you certainly don't, Hawklan. You might be a fighter, but you've never been a ranker with an officer to deceive.’ Both he and Tel Mindor laughed loudly but good-naturedly.
As they subsided, Hawklan conceded. ‘You're right, Rede, I am indeed a poor actor, and I do owe you an apology. But I'm neither spy nor fighter. I'm just a healer.'
The old man looked at him narrowly for a moment, then, stretching his right leg stiffly, he massaged his knee with his hand and rested his foot on a well-worn stool nearby.
'We're very near Orthlund here,’ he said. ‘There've been tales for years of a great healer, Hawklan, living in some village by the mountains. Even thought of going to see him myself...’ He paused reflectively then shrugged off his digression. ‘Anyway, I'm inclined to believe you. You've got a healer's way about you, and I'll trust our little healer's response to you; he's a good man, very perceptive.’ Then, almost in spite of himself, he laughed again. ‘Poor lad looked as if he'd met one of the Guardians when you took hold of his hands and he's quite incapable of anything other than an honest response.’ His laughter subsided and he went on, more seriously, ‘As for you being a fighter and a spy, well you're no ordinary traveller, that's for sure. Nor your silent friend here.’ He indicated the watching Isloman. ‘That little charade with Uskal and Gister wouldn't fool anyone with half an eye for a warrior. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you were sorely tempted to use your sword on that oaf's head at one stage, weren't you?’ He did not wait for an answer, but patted his knee and eased his foot back down on to the floor. ‘Anyway, I'm not too bothered about that. You've got your own reasons for doing what you're doing and you'd be hard-pressed to hurt Fyorlund much more than it's hurting itself at the moment.’ His voice was bitter. ‘What's more to the point is what we're going to say to the Mathidrin when they arrive.'
'Mathidrin?’ queried Hawklan.
The Rede's face was still in shadow, but the bitterness and anger in his voice was clear enough. ‘They started off calling them King's High Guard. King's High Guard no less. Then when that provoked a storm they changed the name. That's a fine way to legalize a crime, don't you think? Change its name.'
Hawklan offered no comment. ‘And these Mathidrin will be coming for us?’ he asked.
The Rede nodded. ‘I'm afraid so. Gister will have sent one of his fellow worms along the valley to their camp.'
'I presume it would be unwise of us to attempt to avoid them?’ Hawklan said.
'Yes,’ said the Rede. ‘It'd be difficult, even if you knew the mountains. And Gister's people will be watching for you as well.’ He hesitated.
'And?’ offered Hawklan.
'And I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to stay here until they arrive. Gister has a growing following. If I were to release you against orders, that would play right into his hands, and what little authority I still have here would be gone.’ His voice was firm, but unhappy.
'Orders, Rede?’ Hawklan said in some surprise. ‘What orders? What's happening here?'
The Rede turned away from Hawklan's gaze and the sun illuminated an embarrassed and worried profile. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn't talk like this, but seeing you out there, dealing with those louts ... I don't know what's happening. It's like some kind of madness. Dissension and argument everywhere. The Geadrol suspended. Lords arrested. These ... Mathidrin ... arresting and intimidating people. And all seemingly with the King's blessing—or Dan-Tor's. And rumours everywhere, even that the Orthlundyn are preparing to attack us. Have you ever heard such rubbish? Good grief, there's only a handful of them down there...’ Then the bitterness and anger burst out briefly. ‘But it's too much to ask someone from Vakloss to go and look, isn't it? That's far too simple a solution. As for listening to people like me, who live here and could tell them...'
Hawklan let the outburst pass unremarked. ‘What do these Mathidrin want of us, Rede?’ he asked.
The Rede's tone quietened. ‘Ethriss knows, Hawklan, but you're strangers from Orthlund, and I've quite unequivocal orders from Vakloss that all strangers are to be detained and handed over to the Mathidrin. I'm sorry.'
Hawklan leaned his head on his hand. ‘Detained eh?’ he said with a surprising smile. ‘I thought there was more to Tel-Mindor than met the eye.'
The Rede shrugged regretfully. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said again.
Isloman grunted and turned to look at Tel-Mindor sitting casually by the door. The man returned his gaze steadily but pleasantly. Isloman's eyes narrowed slightly as if he were looking for something. Then he made a brief series of small hand movements. Tel-Mindor's composure disappeared and his eyes widened in disbelief. Isloman raised a finger to silence him, then turned back to Hawklan.
'Tell the Rede why we've come, Hawklan,’ he said. ‘We'll get an honest hearing and it's going to be difficult to tell friend from foe soon.'
Rede Berryn watched this exchange closely, his fingers idly running around a raised embellishment on the plate by his side. He looked enquiringly at Tel-Mindor.
'Listen,’ Tel-Mindor said. The Rede nodded.
Hawklan looked at Isloman. ‘Quickly, Hawklan,�
� said the Carver. ‘We may not have much time.'
Hawklan glanced then at Tel-Mindor, who nodded. He turned again to the Rede. ‘Rede, I'm sorry about the false names, but I was uncertain about the mood of the crowd and from what's happened to me recently I thought our names—mine in particular—might not be helpful.’ He leaned forward. ‘We came here to see what's wrong in Fyorlund and to find your Lord Dan-Tor.'
'Why?’ asked the Rede.
Hawklan took a deep breath. He had no way of judging this man's loyalties, he would just have to trust Isloman’ s judgement. Briefly he outlined how Dan-Tor had twice tried to capture him and how his second attempt had resulted in the slaughter of his entire personal guard at the hands of a patrol led by Mathidrin officers. Some inner voice held him silent about the true nature of this patrol.
As he spoke, it occurred to him that even now, sitting in this chaotic room, looking into the face of his jailer host dark against the sunlight, he might still only be following a carefully laid bait. He set the thought aside uneasily.
The mood in the room had changed. Without looking, Hawklan could feel a new intensity in Tel-Mindor, and he knew too that the look in Rede Berryn's shaded eyes had hardened.
'Who was the leader of this personal guard?’ the Rede asked coldly.
'Jaldaric,’ replied Hawklan. ‘As I told you, it was him the patrol came for, and it was only him who survived. The last we saw of him he was tied over a horse and being taken to Fyorlund.'
A long silence weighed heavily in the room.
'Hawklan,’ said the Rede eventually. ‘I've had it whispered to me by a trusted friend in Vakloss that the Lord Dan-Tor was on a friendly mission to Orthlund and that he was driven out by the Orthlundyn. Frankly I didn't believe it. I think my friend has been misinformed, perhaps deliberately so. As I said, we're very close to Orthlund here. But your story verges on the ridiculous. Why in Ethriss's name would anyone want to capture some Orthlundyn healer, however well known? And as for a Mathidrin patrol attacking the Lord Dan-Tor's personal guard...’ He made a gesture of angry dismissal.
Hawklan looked at Isloman and then back at the Rede. ‘Rede, there's something about the patrol I didn't tell you, because even without it I knew my story would be difficult to believe, but...'
Isloman interrupted. ‘No, Hawklan,’ he said firmly, ‘he won't believe you, but he might believe me.’ And standing up he walked across to the battered helm that had caught Hawklan's eye earlier. He lifted it down respectfully and, holding it in front of him, he spoke to the Rede in the High Guard's Battle Language. Hawklan did not understand it, but twice he caught the word Mandroocai.
The reaction was explosive, as the Rede angrily rose to his feet, grimacing at the pain in his leg as he did so. ‘You're lying,’ he burst out. ‘And you profane our Oath with such a swearing.’ Then he stopped, suddenly uncertain. His confusion made him belligerent. ‘How do you know our Battle Language and our Oath, Orthlundyn?'
Isloman did not reply, but turned and looked at Tel-Mindor. ‘Goraidin,’ he said quietly. ‘I release you from our Oath of Secrecy. Tell him who I am and whether I would lie.’ Tel-Mindor's easy composure had left him at Isloman's speech. Shock, diagnosed the healer in Hawklan. Fairly massive shock at that. And the Rede too. Tel-Mindor hesitated.
'Tell him, Goraidin,’ said Isloman powerfully. ‘How can your Rede decide without information?'
Tel-Mindor looked up, his face pale, but his composure returning rapidly. ‘Rede,’ he said, ‘this is Isloman, one of the two brothers who rode with Dirfrin and the Goraidin in Riddin. He is Goraidin. Hawklan has his trust and his sword arm, and his word's beyond reproach. We must accept what he says. Armed Mandrocs have been led into Orthlund by Mathidrin officers and have slaughtered the Lord Dan-Tor's personal guard.'
The Rede leaned forward to speak, but Tel-Mindor raised his hand abruptly for silence and moved towards the window. As he opened it, the sound of raised voices and the clatter of horses’ hooves washed into the room.
* * *
Chapter 28
Patterns, patterns, patterns. Dan-Tor sensed the presence of other minds working contrary to his purpose, but their shape and form, and not least, their nucleus, eluded him. He tried to shrug the idea away, but it was reluctant to leave him. The King had started the avalanche, now he, Dan-Tor, had to ride it out through the dust and uproar until all was quiet and the new shape of the land could be surveyed. It was inevitable that opposition would arise and swirl about him from time to time, but while it had no centre, surely it offered no real threat?
These creatures do so look to a leader, he thought. One of their few virtues. They actively seek to be controlled and manipulated. He had debated with himself whether he should allow a leader to arise and then control him, or whether he should extinguish any hopefuls before they became aware of their potential. On balance, he decided, the latter was preferable. Let the crowds spend their energies milling about aimlessly. There were too many risks associated with a leader. No matter how well he might be controlled, one misjudgement and he could be free, and Dan-Tor knew too bitterly what an inspired leader could bring from the people. It was too dangerous. So much easier to douse the tiny sparks before they flared up into what could become an uncontrollable blaze.
Now, however, he found that he could not escape the feeling that a leader had already emerged. One of cunning and experience; one who knew sufficient of the ways of men to keep himself hidden from view while he built up his strength. Working quietly in the shadows until he felt the time was ripe.
Walking to the window, Dan-Tor looked down at the heart of the city nestling around the Palace walls. The pattern of its streets was distorted by long shadows carved out of the bright rays of the setting sun by countless tiny buildings. Even from this height he could see people walking on the sunnier streets, trailing their own great shadows with them. Is it one of them I fear? he thought consolingly. Tiny people with giants’ shadows?
But the name Hawklan wandered relentlessly into his mind. The man was loose and was by now aware of danger. All that he heard of him in Orthlund indicated he was just a healer, but a man who commanded so much spontaneous affection was a man to be watched; and a man who saw so clearly and who so evaded his traps, aided or no, was a man who could usefully be feared, be he Ethriss or no. He was at least a flickering spark, and it irked Dan-Tor that it was his impetuosity that might have fanned him into life.
And I'm blind, he thought angrily as he watched a small bird land on the windowsill unaware of the man's brooding presence behind the glass. One of his birds had been bound, and it was the nature of the creature that to bind one part was to bind all. But that required great power, the Old Power. Blind or no, he could now see what that implied. Who could wield the Old Power thus except the Cadwanol? They must indeed still exist. It was a bad omen. Though it seemed they had let Hawklan escape ...
He shook off the thought, knowing it would lead only to a fretting labyrinth of confusion. His gaze fell again on the preening bird. To release his own birds he would have to use the Old Power himself, and massively, and He had expressly forbidden that. Hawklan even as Hawklan was proving disruptive, but if Hawklan were Ethriss then such a rending use of the Old Power would awaken him for sure, and Hawklan as Ethriss would be doom itself.
Dan-Tor's spies now were human—slow, foolish and unreliable. To use them reminded him too much of his own erstwhile humanity. It was a degradation.
The bird on the sill lifted an elegant black and white wing, and its plumed head bobbed to and fro as it preened and shook itself proudly. Dan-Tor watched it for a moment then narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly. Without a sound, the bird vanished in a burst of red spray, and a cascade of black and white feathers began a long oscillating journey towards the ground far below. Dan-Tor turned away, a thin smile across his wrinkled brown face. Such a slight use of the Old Power could disturb no one—except the recipient.
Sitting, he stared out of the window again, seeing no
w only a blank sky blanched almost white in the setting sun. His mind was tempted to flit and fret after the missing Hawklan, but a deeper voice forbade it. Even a pack leader must leave tracks, it said. If he seeks you, you'll know of his presence when he has your scent, then who will be hunter and who hunted?
He nodded reflectively and bent over the papers spread before him. They drew his mind back to his own chains. Confound Dilrap, buzzing endlessly around like a fit bluebottle. It took a considerable effort not to swat him, but he was useful, valuable almost, for all his irritating mannerisms and shrinking temperament. He knew the minutiae of the Law and of the Court procedures that were needed to manipulate events smoothly. Better at this stage to unravel the knots than cut through them. Time enough for that later, and that time would come the sooner if patience were used now.
Strangely, however, Dilrap seemed to be thriving on it. Briefly it occurred to Dan-Tor that, although terrified of him, Dilrap seemed to be deliberately seeking his attention, going out of his way to be helpful. It was out of character surely? Then perhaps Dilrap could feel which way the wind was blowing and was ingratiating himself thoroughly with the leader of the new order that he could see coming.
