by Roger Taylor
Dowinne kept her eyes fixed on her husband's face throughout this declamation, searching desperately with her every sense for the signs about him that would confirm what his words were telling her, namely that he had become unhinged. But there was nothing. Though his voice and manner were excited, they were not hysterical. Nor was there anything in his gestures, his expression, or in those most revealing traitors, his eyes, that indicated that he was other than quite sane.
It was a scheme, she decided. He had seen the folly of his conduct of the last few months and had decided to change direction.
But a united Gyronlandt...
Despite his appeal, she would have to probe.
'I can see you rising to the position of Covenant Member, Enryc,’ she said, ‘but a united Gyronlandt? And within the church? Twenty or more different states with every conceivable form of government and religion, or lack of it, all of them larger and more powerful than Canol Madreth. Even the most ambitious of politicians would hesitate before promising something like that.'
There was no reproach, however. Instead, Cassraw simply nodded and smiled again. He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Politicians,’ he sneered. ‘Mountebanks and charlatans. Men with dreams far outstripping their meagre abilities, yet without vision beyond the next Acclamation, or even the next crop of Sheets.’ He stood up and looked out at the Ervrin Mallos, dark and solid against the grey sky. ‘They clatter around without any semblance of true guidance.’ He shook his head. ‘They have no conception of the nature of the institutions that they ostensibly command, none at all. They're blind, Dowinne, blind to a man, but I will bring them the light to see by. The One True Light.’ He fell silent. ‘As for their religions,’ there was a darker note in his voice now that drew Dowinne's attention sharply. ‘They are heresies, all of them. They will fall before what is coming like wheat before a scythe. There will be a grim harvest.'
Dowinne experienced a frisson of excitement as Cassraw spoke. There seemed to be a power about him that she had never known before. She reprimanded herself. Stay calm. Stay quiet. Above all, listen!
She probed again. ‘I've never doubted your vision, Enryc,’ she said. ‘Not ever—you know that. But what you're saying now seems as wild as any politician's Acclamation speech.’ Then, dangerously, ‘Or as foolish as the rantings of one of those spurious religious leaders who spring up from time to time to prey on the gullible and foolish.'
Cassraw's eyes blazed.
Dowinne braced herself, though she could not hazard for what.
'She is of Us. Do not doubt. She will not be lightly won. Lead and she will follow.'
With an effort, Cassraw set his anger aside. ‘I am neither, Dowinne. If you don't know that, then watch me, and learn. You will be by my side in this as you have been in all other things before.'
Again she felt a power within him that was new to her. He was not insane, nor was he naive or foolish. He was strong and whole, and filled with a purpose whose end she could not see but which would be one after her own desires.
Abruptly, he reached out towards her with both hands. ‘Will you trust and follow me?’ he said, very softly.
This time the power in him almost overwhelmed her. Doubts whirled about her mind, but beneath them another knowledge rose to urge her on.
She stood up and took the offered hands. ‘Yes, my love,’ she said. ‘I will.'
* * *
Chapter 9
Vredech leapt up out of his chair in terror and spun round. He became aware of a cry mingling with his own and, as his eyes began to focus, reality slipped away once more as he found himself gazing into Cassraw's face, its eyes wide and fearful, its mouth agape.
His mind teetered at the edge of an abyss.
The mouth began to move. Slow, lumbering words reached him.
'I'm so sorry, Brother Vredech,’ they said breathlessly. ‘I didn't mean to startle you. I ...’ Control was exerted and there was a trembling but relieved breath. ‘You gave me a rare fright, jumping up like that.'
Vredech's vision cleared and, somehow, he found his own voice. ‘Skynner. Keeper Skynner,’ he gasped, slapping his hand on his chest as if to still the frantic pounding of his heart. The two men stared at one another for a moment, then simultaneously began a babbled round of mutual apologizing. Eventually they both became coherent and Vredech motioned his visitor to a seat.
Haron Skynner, a bulky man of middle years, was a Keeper—a Serjeant Keeper, to give him his rank—one of that august civilian body which maintained order on the streets of Troidmallos at the behest of the Heindral. It was not a clearly defined duty and the Keepers were judged primarily on their success at controlling the town's more troublesome individuals, rather than on the legal niceties of how they achieved this. But, for the most part, they were respected, if not always loved. And generally, they were competent and honest. Not that Keeper Skynner and his colleagues were above occasionally welcoming largesse from the local traders as tokens of gratitude for their good offices. Hardly ever money—that was really beyond the pale—but a meal here, a piece of beef there, a loaf, a fowl, a favourable discount on this or that. It was not approved of officially and, in fact, ran directly counter to the formal procedures laid down by the Heindral governing the conduct of Keepers, but one has to be realistic, flexible, in these matters, hasn't one?
'What do you want, Haron?’ Vredech asked, as the waves of his panic finally subsided.
Skynner gave a long, regretful breath. ‘It's Mad Jarry, I'm afraid,’ he said.
Anticipation of what was to follow set aside Vredech's immediate preoccupations and he tilted an imaginary glass to his mouth. Skynner nodded.
'Who gave it to him?’ Vredech asked, frowning.
Skynner shrugged. ‘None of our local innkeepers, for sure,’ he replied. ‘They value their Consents too highly—not to mention their property. It might have been young lads, for a lark, or maybe someone was just careless when he was around. You know what he's like when he gets the urge for a drink.'
'Indeed I do,’ Vredech acknowledged, standing up wearily. ‘Where is he?'
Skynner stood up as well, clutching his cap apologetically. ‘I'm really sorry for giving you such a fright,’ he said. ‘I can see you're tired. You needn't come if it's too much trouble. We can deal with him. I just thought that ... after the last time ...’ He raised his eyebrows and left the sentence unfinished.
For a moment, Vredech was tempted. Jarry could be a considerable handful when he was drunk but then, as Skynner's expression was reminding him, if the Keepers had to deal with him they would probably have little choice but to resort to force—and who could say what consequences might flow from that?
As he debated with himself, Skynner was continuing, ‘I heard you had a little problem up at the Witness House.’ His wilfully casual manner made Vredech chuckle and his hesitation vanished. Poor Mueran, he thought, imagining he could keep anything secret in Troidmallos. From past experience he knew that it was not only pointless, but foolish to equivocate with Skynner; he liked and respected the man. Besides, the Keepers having the proper tale would help to dampen down the more foolish gossip that was likely to be abroad soon. He kept matters simple and told the truth. Most of it, anyway.
'We had a ... difficult ... meeting,’ he said. ‘Cassraw went out to stretch his legs and ... clear his head ... and unfortunately had a nasty fall. The light went very suddenly under that cloud. He was lucky to get away with just a few bruises.’ Then he added his own political contribution, with a knowing smile. ‘If you heard anything substantially different from that it'll give you some measure of the worth of your informants.'
Skynner grinned. ‘I'll take due note of your advice,’ he said.
'Come on,’ Vredech said, reaching for his cloak. ‘Take me to Jarry. I'll do what I can. Chapter meetings are not my favourite activity at the best of times and this one was particularly trying, even without Cassraw's misfortune. A bit of active pastoral care will blow the cobwebs off me
.'
'Don't make it too active, Brother,’ Skynner remarked. ‘I came to you to avoid that.'
* * * *
Jarold Harverson—Mad Jarry to everyone who knew him ... was a very large and powerful man. He was also strange. Some called him stupid, others simple. Children generally loved him, except for those who had been infected by their parents’ fears; they ran from him in terror, or around him pelting him with scorn and anything else they felt brave enough to handle. Such physicians as had looked at him from time to time had shaken their heads and, in the absence of any greater wisdom, had declared that his ‘condition’ was attributable to a dangerous fever he had suffered when young and that nothing could be done for him.
Despite their natural sternness, the Madren were kinder than many in their treatment of such as Jarry. Other states in Gyronlandt hounded and persecuted them, not infrequently locking them up in the foulest conditions or subjecting them to the outlandish treatments of physicians who were even less inclined to admit their ignorance than their colleagues in Canol Madreth. The Madren, for the most part, though wary, watched and tended and made allowances for such people, taking what care they could to ensure that they hurt neither themselves nor others.
A few said of Jarry that, ‘he sees with other eyes'. Though he had no clear idea what it meant, Vredech had a sneaking sympathy for this notion, for Jarry's manner was often at once absent and attentive as if indeed he were in some other place. And he could be so heartbreakingly gentle and sensitive at times that more than once Vredech had felt truly humbled before him. Yet at other times he was undeniably odd, running about frantically as if trying to escape from some awful pursuer, ranting and raving in what seemed to be a coherent foreign language, though no one could identify it. Sadly, too, he also possessed the darker nature that is humanity's inexorable lot. He could be violent—very violent. Though it was only under one circumstance—when he had been drinking.
Drink was viewed with great suspicion by the church in Canol Madreth, largely, in the view of outsiders, because people enjoyed it. Be that as it may, the disapproval existed and while accepting that it could not eradicate drink as a social vice while large sections of the community regarded it as a social grace, the church expected its Preaching Brothers to inveigh against it heavily from time to time. They were also required to be conspicuously abstinent, thus providing a fairly steady source of scandals for Privv and the other Sheeters. It was, however, the efforts of the church through the years that had bound Canol Madreth's innkeepers to their Consents—a bizarre tangle of petty statutes and by-laws with which they were required to comply in order to ply their trade. The complexities of the Consent Laws were a source of endless complaint for the Keepers, the innkeepers, most of the public and nearly all outsiders. The latter in particular could often be found staring open-mouthed at the list of restrictions which were posted on each inn door and which told them why they would have to remain thirsty for the next few hours.
On the whole however, innkeepers complained only so far—there was no saying what mess the Heindral would make of the Consent Laws if they revised them yet again. It was unheard of for the Heindral to reassess the need for, and value of, any statute totally. Their universally consistent method of adjusting to social change was to tack bits and pieces on to existing statutes. Their laws were thus often festooned with obscure and difficult amendments, not a few of which were often irrelevant in that the conditions which they were intended to deal with had long passed away. And, to a man, innkeepers were careful. Substantial financial penalties awaited anyone who was foolish enough to flout the conditions of his Consent.
Hence Skynner's certainty that Jarry had not received his drink from any authorized source—not that the source was of any great relevance at the moment. Regrettably, there were times when Jarry actively sought whatever solace it was he found in drink and, for any person so inclined, the drink was always there to be found. Why Jarry should be so driven no one could say. Had it been asked, the church would have probably fallen back on its dogma that Man was naturally evil and would necessarily do such things unless restrained by the threat of retribution—divine or secular. Vredech was personally inclined to the view that whatever worlds Jarry saw into sometimes became so awful that he simply sought oblivion. It was not a view he discussed with anyone, though it came to him again as he walked alongside Skynner towards the place where Jarry had last been seen.
Perhaps if I could see what he sees, I might be able to help him more, he found himself thinking. The thought had an unusually strange force and he found himself shuddering inwardly; he had looked into enough strange worlds of his own these past two days. Now was a time for simple, down-to-earth practicalities. His expertise as a negotiator was needed if Jarry was to be spared what must inevitably be a severe beating, and doubtless several Keepers spared injury. And there was always the fear at such times that greater harm than bruises and sprains might occur, leading to Jarry being jailed, perhaps permanently, for the public good. It was a peculiarly horrible thought. Although he had a home, maintained by various relatives and friends of the family, Jarry did not like being indoors. Apart from hunger and tiredness, only the fiercest of weathers would keep him inside. Jailing him would be hurling him headlong into the very worst of the worlds to which he was witness.
A figure came running toward them. It was another Keeper. He acknowledged Vredech with a brief but respectful nod then spoke to Skynner. ‘He's off again. It looks as if he's heading for Mirrylan Square.’ He looked anxious. ‘He keeps pestering people—shouting at them.'
Skynner frowned. ‘What have you done?’ he asked.
'Just kept an eye on him, like you said,’ came the reply. ‘I know well enough how he responds to our uniforms when he's like this.'
Skynner made no comment but turned sharply into a narrow alleyway. Vredech and the Keeper swung in behind him and the trio moved in single uneven file, stepping around and over the debris and litter that cluttered the alley floor. Every now and then, Skynner's long stride would give way to a trot as his anxiety drew him on. Thus, when they emerged from the alley, Vredech was slightly breathless and quite flushed. He put his hand on Skynner's arm to slow him down. The big man did so, albeit reluctantly.
A noise reached them. It was someone shouting.
'He's in the Square,’ the Keeper said, pointing. Vredech saw a small group of Keepers gathered at the far end of the street. It was apparent from their movement that they were endeavouring to watch what was happening around the corner without being seen. Some of them were swinging their batons.
'Put those away right now,’ Vredech said grimly as he reached the group. One or two looked at Skynner who merely furrowed his brow angrily at them for their hesitancy in doing as the Preacher bade them.
Vredech looked round the corner into Mirrylan Square. It was one of Troidmallos's older squares and, though its age showed in the buildings around it and the well-worn and rutted cobbles, it always had an open, airy feel to it which made it more popular than many of the town's newer squares with their carefully maintained lawns and trees.
Now, however, the people standing around the edges of the square were not interested in the subtle mysteries of its charm. Their attention was on the centre of the Square, where stood a small stone tower which marked the site of a long-sealed well, and their mood was one of uncertain excitement, plus no small amount of expectation. Motioning Skynner and the others to stay where they were, Vredech stepped forward and began walking towards the tower. Donning his Preacher's manner he looked round at the watchers sternly as he passed. Most of them shifted a little uncomfortably under his gaze, but he did not pause to give them any further reproach. Instead, he concentrated on the hulking figure of Jarry pacing to and fro at the foot of the broad steps which served as a dais for the tower. He had a half-empty bottle in one hand and was gesticulating violently with the other, at the same time shouting something that Vredech could not make out.
Aware that all eyes
would now be on him, Vredech straightened up and tried to keep his anxiety from his face. It was no easy task as a large part of his mind was occupied with asking, ‘What am I doing here?’ Jarry was larger even than Skynner and fully as strong as his powerful muscular frame indicated. And, right now, there was a frightening momentum in the long strides he was taking. Vredech took in the old tower with its stained and spalling rendering and its steeply pitched slate roof, dotted with spheres of moss. It was scarcely the height of two men to its eaves, but Jarry's size so distorted its perspective that Vredech had the impression he was looking at a picture taken from some child's book showing a great giant guarding a mighty tower fortress.
Oddly, the impression did not fade immediately, and for a terrifying moment he felt as though he were shrinking as he neared the formidable figure. He stopped and deliberately composed himself. His father's words came to him. ‘See things as they are.’ Simple but profound advice which, though far from easy to follow, had more than once been of great value to him. Then the scene in front of him was Jarry and the old Well Tower. And Jarry was Jarry, for all practical purposes a child trapped in a man's body. Vredech began advancing again, this time at an easy pace and in a direction that would ensure that Jarry would see him before he was too close. He smiled.
