Whistler

by Roger Taylor

  ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you, sir,’ he said, ‘but an extremely serious matter’s come to light. I need to…’ he was about to say discuss but changed it quickly, ‘… report it immediately.’

  The Chief pointed to a chair. ‘Bring that over here and sit down, Haron,’ he said.

  Skynner’s every instinct leapt on to the defensive. The Chief using his given name like that was not a good sign. Something difficult was about to be brought up. Nevertheless, and trying not to look as tense as he felt, he did as he was told.

  The Chief addressed Drommel as Skynner sat down stiffly between them. ‘This is Haron Skynner,’ he said. ‘Our most senior Serjeant.’ He became avuncular. ‘Should be a Captain by rights, but he insists he prefers footwork to paperwork and he’s not to be persuaded to higher ambitions.’ He nodded sagely. ‘I think perhaps he’s wiser than we know. I must confess, there’s been many a time when I’ve sat here and wished devoutly that I could be out there with my men, doing what we’re trained for, and best at.’

  With commendable restraint Skynner remained silent, confining himself to a self-deprecating but knowing smile.

  ‘I’ve seen Serjeant Skynner many a time on duty at the PlasHein,’ Drommel said, endeavouring to ape the Chief’s informality but still having a little difficulty with his statesman’s voice. He nodded creakily towards Skynner then gave the Chief a significant look.

  The Chief nodded. ‘Serjeant Skynner’s one of my best men, if not the best. There’s nothing I’d not trust him with, and he’s very sound in practical matters. A street Keeper to his boots.’

  If only that didn’t sound like an insult, Skynner thought.

  ‘And what we have to deal with is nothing if not practical, is it?’

  Skynner was watching the two men carefully, waiting for an opportunity to commence his account of Cassraw’s actions. Gradually, however, he became aware of an undertow of excitement between them.

  The word ‘conspiracy’ came to him unbidden.

  Drommel gave a sign of acquiescence. ‘I trust your judgement implicitly, Chief,’ he said. ‘I can see it will be important that the Serjeant and his colleagues be aware of what’s going to happen and why.’

  The Chief nodded briskly and stood up. Skynner made to rise, but the Chief waved him airily back down on to his seat. He took up an authoritative stance with his back to the fire and his legs planted solid and wide. ‘Serjeant,’ he began, as though addressing a parade. ‘You know that, as Keepers, we avoid getting involved in politics. We’re executive officers of the state and it’s our job to do as the law-makers decree, not decide what should and should not be the law. We advise occasionally, of course, but purely to lay before them the benefits of our experience for their guidance.’ Skynner began to feel uneasy. The Chief rocked forward. ‘However, it needs no great political insight to realize that, for various reasons, the country’s currently facing serious difficulties. Difficulties that will need a strong head and a strong hand to see us through.’

  Skynner nodded tentatively as the Chief seemed to be awaiting some response, though he was feeling increasingly uncomfortable.

  ‘The situation is this, Skynner. The Castellan Party is in complete disarray. They’ve no one else of the calibre of their present leader and he, frankly, is… unwell.’ He made a drinking gesture. ‘I have it on good authority that he’ll probably resign very shortly. That’ll leave us with the Ploughers in charge.’ He puffed out his cheeks in dismay. ‘They, unfortunately, are almost as disunited as the Castellans. And in any case, they’ve always been more theoretical in their thinking than practical, and under their present leader – a worthy soul as you know but hardly a driving force – they’re not remotely capable of standing firm in the face of what’s likely to happen after the routing of the Felden army. Frankly, I can’t see this present Heindral lasting the week. Then we’ll be facing an Acclamation. An Acclamation, Skynner. Two months leaderless with Tirfelden undoubtedly preparing to send another army against us.’ He shook his head. ‘Suicide, man. National suicide.’

  Skynner was uncertain how to respond. He was about to tell the Chief that the situation was even worse than he envisaged, and that Cassraw was arbitrarily levying the militia, when the Chief forestalled him. ‘Fortunately, we have at least two strong men in positions of responsibility who can act to save us from this predicament. One is Heinder Drommel here, who has consistently tried to embolden the Heindral to take firm action against Tirfelden. The other is Brother Cassraw, who for months now has been decrying the moral decay in the country and who, with his Knights of Ishryth, has saved us from the first thrust of the Felden assault while our ostensible leaders dithered and appeased.’

  Skynner had faced many difficult situations in his time and had considerable skill in separating his inner reactions from his outward responses. It was strained to the limit by this revelation of the Chief’s thinking, however. All that saved him from denouncing the remarks as ridiculous, was the realization that what had been said about the Heindral and the country’s position was correct. Further, he began to realize, if the Chief and Drommel and perhaps Cassraw were playing some political game together, then others would be involved. Others whose names, whose power and influence, he did not know. It behoved him, he reminded himself, to remember that he was only a Serjeant, and whatever he thought about what was happening, such power as he had to affect it could be removed from him with little more than a snap of the fingers by the man addressing him. Nevertheless, he could not stay silent.

  ‘Brother Cassraw is a remarkable man, beyond doubt, sir,’ he said carefully. ‘But he’s causing great controversy within the Church, which may see him losing the Haven Parish. And I’ll confess I’m uncomfortable about members of the Church becoming involved in lay matters. It confuses people. And I’m afraid that some of the young men he’s recruited for his Knights of Ishryth are not exactly desirable – a bunch of thugs and louts with whom we’re all too familiar. And his own behaviour is unusual, to say the least. He almost started a riot at the summit of the Ervrin Mallos with a trick he played there, and the consequences could have been serious. That’s one of the things I came to see you about.’

  He was aware of the two men watching him very closely… judging him.

  ‘We know,’ the Chief said. ‘But no actual harm was done, was it? You see, Haron, Brother Cassraw has a true gift for handling people.’ He leaned forward and Skynner felt the scrutiny intensifying. ‘And I think there’s little doubt that he has indeed been chosen for some great mission.’

  Still Skynner managed to give no outward sign of the shock he felt at this further revelation, but inwardly he was reeling. The Chief’s words resounded in his head like tolling funeral bells. They had had someone on the mountain! They knew what had happened! The ranting sermon, the trick with the rain, the call to levy the militia… and they were content to do nothing about it! Frighteningly, the conclusion formed that they might actually have been party to it.

  And that the Chief should think Cassraw was some kind of chosen prophet…

  He did not want to pursue that idea.

  The Chief was continuing. Skynner dragged his scattering thoughts together. ‘Apart from the many other signs we’ve been shown, Serjeant, is it not strange that poor Brother Mueran should pass on so suddenly and unexpectedly, thereby elevating Brother Cassraw to the position of Covenant Member?’ He leaned back on his heels and pontificated. ‘It’s not for the likes of us to question the ways of Ishryth’s providence, but to see where our duty to Him and the people lies, and to act accordingly.’

  Skynner made a final cautious attempt at resistance. ‘As you say, sir. Not my province at all. But I’m uncertain about the legality of Brother Cassraw levying the militia, sir. It should properly be done through the Heindral.’

  The Chief nodded understandingly. ‘We have no Heindral, Serjeant, except in name,’ he said forcefully. ‘And it’s uncertainty and fretting about niceties that’s brought us to this.’ H
e became comradely again. ‘I could go out of here and consult a dozen different lawyers on our constitutional position and come up with two dozen different opinions – as you know yourself. The fact is, there’s never been a situation like this before. There are no precedents to guide us – nothing. So, humble servants of the state like you and me must put our faith in our duty to protect the people, and encourage them to protect themselves.’

  ‘I couldn’t argue with that, sir,’ Skynner said, determined now simply to watch events, and move as they dictated. A little humility wouldn’t go amiss, he decided. ‘But, as you said, sir, I’m just a simple street Keeper; I’m not quite sure what part I have to play in these affairs. I just do my job and follow orders.’

  The Chief and Drommel exchanged a satisfied glance and the Chief, though still holding his position in front of the dying fire, relaxed noticeably. ‘Heinder Drommel has been in consultation with Brother Cassraw today, as have I, many times of late. I find him most… impressive. We both knew of his intention to call for a levying of the militia and we agreed with it, even though, technically, its legality is arguable. The exigencies of the times will acquit us, should it prove we’ve been over-zealous.’ His face became sombre. ‘Tomorrow, Heinder Drommel will put a motion before the Heindral calling for its dissolution and the institution of an emergency militia government pending the holding of an Acclamation.’

  Skynner’s brow furrowed as his mind stumbled back through the years to his basic training and the cursory instruction he had received then in constitutional law. A rote-learned definition slowly emerged. ‘The vesting of all authority in the hands of a few appointed ministers and officials under a…’ He clicked his fingers.

  ‘High Commander,’ Drommel said, as Skynner struggled to remember the title.

  Skynner nodded his thanks. ‘But it’s never actually been done, has it?’ he said. ‘Isn’t it a relic of the days of the Court of the Provers and earlier?’

  ‘That’s true,’ the Chief said. ‘But the provision is still there within our laws. And again, who can say what providence allowed it to remain there, for it’s precisely what we need to deal with the situation we now find ourselves facing.’

  The look of concern on Skynner’s face was genuine, but he wilfully added confusion to it for the benefit of his watchers. ‘And my part in this?’ he asked, reverting to his previous question.

  ‘Under militia government, the responsibilities of the Keepers are greatly increased, as are their powers. This is necessary because, sadly, not everyone has our sense of duty. Many will view the prospect of defending their country with sufficient distaste to take active steps towards avoiding it. Such individuals must be dealt with swiftly and severely by way of example before their actions spread resentment and opposition. Further, the requirements of a fully levied militia will disrupt normal social and business life greatly, and in such circumstances there are more opportunities than ever for the criminals amongst us to ply their various trades. Men of your experience will be essential for the efficient running of the state until such time as normal government can be restored.’

  Under an impassive demeanour, Skynner was still struggling to come to terms with all that he had heard during the last few minutes. Having only dealt directly with the Chief a few times in the past, he had no way of accurately assessing his mood and temperament. The man was known to have political ambitions, but these were always regarded as a joke amongst the men. And what he had said was both accurate and appropriate. Though it took him an effort to form the words, Skynner accepted that the country was indeed ‘at war’ with Tirfelden. Perhaps diplomacy might resolve it, but perhaps not. If not, the consequences would be truly awful and strong leadership was essential. Yet there was a stridency in the Chief’s tone which Skynner found deeply unsettling. He needed time to think.

  But he posed a question instead. ‘I accept what you say, sir, but with respect, what if the Heindral doesn’t pass Heinder Drommel’s motion, and chooses to bumble on as before?’

  The Chief smiled knowingly. ‘As I told you, Heinder, a solid practical man,’ he said to Drommel before answering Skynner’s question. ‘Don’t concern yourself about that, Serjeant,’ he said, reaching forward and patting Skynner’s shoulder, fatherly now. ‘That’s politicians’ work. And you can rest assured that a great deal more has been happening behind the scenes than I’m at liberty to discuss, even with a fellow Keeper.’ Skynner managed to smile appreciatively. ‘What Heinder Drommel and I need to know now, Serjeant, is are you with us in this?’

  Drommel twitched slightly at this clumsy conclusion to the Chief’s peroration, and Skynner noted the movement with some satisfaction. It seemed to make the Chief a familiar figure again. But that was only a temporary verbal stumble in the presence of an individual who really did not matter all that much. The realities of what had been said would be unaffected by it. Skynner resorted to his own discreetly ambiguous rhetoric. ‘I’m a Keeper, sir. Keeping the peace and protecting ordinary folk from those who’d harm them is what I’m good at. I’ll do whatever I have to do. You can rely on me for that, sir.’

  A little later, alone in a narrow alley at the back of the Keeperage, where he had come to clear his head with cold night air, Skynner had a vision of Canol Madreth at war and under the heel of Cassraw and Drommel and the likes of his Chief. He was violently sick.

  * * * *

  The Whistler frowned. ‘You’re a grim sight to mar such a day, night eyes,’ he said, raising his flute and squinting along it. A sudden breeze gusted around the two men, sending leaves pirouetting about their feet. The Whistler’s eyes widened in delight and he held out the flute, moving it, twisting it, turning it, until a faint sound came from it. His long, bony finger danced along the holes and the sound became a brief, jigging tune. The Whistler smiled as it faded away and then looked at his hand strangely. ‘Thus blows the forest, thus walk my fingers. It seems they’re content to see you.’ He wiggled his fingers. ‘I wonder why they didn’t play you a dirge? That would’ve been my reaction on seeing you again.’ He threw his head back and sniffed. ‘You’ve got Him about you, stronger than ever. Damn you to hell.’

  He stood up and took three jerking steps towards Vredech, keeping the same foot forward. ‘What do you want, Allyn Vredech, priest of Ishrythan?’ he said, hopping from one foot to the other, his manner incongruously at odds with the darkness in his voice. ‘Why do you disturb my dream again? I’d thought to have been rid of you a hundred years ago.’ His eyes moved to the left. ‘Or was it yesterday?’ They moved to the right. ‘Or perhaps tomorrow.’ Then straight forward, into Vredech’s. ‘I can’t remember. Are you a memory of the future, Priest? A shadow cast by the light of a time to come?’

  Vredech lifted a hand, appealing for silence. Whether the Whistler was his own creation, or something else, he had no time for him now. He had to get away from here, return to the Meeting House.

  ‘Where are we?’ he heard himself asking.

  The Whistler danced away, his manner now impatient. ‘We’re here, Allyn Vredech. Where else could we be?’ Then he blew a piercing whistle and Vredech found himself assailed by a roaring din, and unfamiliar but not unpleasant odours. He blinked, not so much to bring the scene before him into focus as to make it recognizable. He was by a huge lake. So huge in fact that he could not see the far side, although he could make out two or three islands in the distance – if islands they were, for they seemed to be moving. A trick of the light, he presumed, for the edge of the lake was alive with motion. Waves, bigger than any he had ever seen, spuming white in the sunlight, were swelling and over-topping themselves, then washing up the sandy shore towards him, spreading themselves thinner and thinner before retreating to oppose the next advancing rank.

  This was no lake, he realized slowly.

  ‘It’s the sea,’ he said, his voice full of wonder. He had never seen the sea.

  ‘And we are here,’ the Whistler said. ‘Just as we are here.’

  There
was another whistle, sharp and jagged this time.

  In the distance, over rolling fields, Vredech saw a great castle set between two mountains and glinting like a precious stone. Its ramping towers and turrets glowed golden in the dawn light. For a moment, as he took in the scene and breathed in the still morning air, all his concerns fell away from him. ‘This is a beautiful place,’ he said softly. ‘Such peace.’ He turned to the Whistler, half-expecting some barbed comment, but the lanky figure was frowning. A fluttering sound nearby made him turn again. A large black bird, sitting on the branch of a tree, was flapping its wings and looking at them, its head tilted to one side. One of its legs looked strange, Vredech noted. Before he could say anything, however, he felt the Whistler’s hand on his shoulder.

  Urgently, he tried to pull away.

  He did not want to leave this place!

  But even as the thought came to him, the Whistler’s tune had borne them both away again. Borne them to a place which could hardly have been a greater contrast, for though a bright summer sun beat down on them, the air was filled with such a din that Vredech’s hands went immediately to his ears. There were the screams of men and animals, mingling with the thudding of hooves, and clashing of arms. Some distance away across the green, undulating turf but close enough to terrify, row upon row of men were locked in savage combat. Vredech backed away, seizing the Whistler’s arm like a fearful child. The battle spread as far as he could see, a dark mass of striving men, wavering pennants, galloping horsemen. As he watched, a black cloud leapt high into the air and fell back again. Only when the sound reached him did he identify it. Arrows! Hundreds of them. And again. And again. He shuddered as the sounds of their landing reached him also.

  A movement away from the battle caught his eye. He turned and saw an old man running. He was looking about him, bewildered and fearful as though he was being pursued. But again, before he could speak, Vredech saw the Whistler lifting his hand to his mouth.