The Steward and the Sorcerer

by James Peart

  The representatives exchanged uneasy looks as Longfellow spoke. He wore the crested insignia of office on his Steward’s tunic, a carved image of a dove, the city’s coat of arms representing peace, an inscription beneath the insignia underlining this sentiment. Longfellow’s cropped blond hair was fringed to one side of his forehead, his eyes and face, like Lord Christopher Went’s, brown and pliantly soft. Nothing in his expression gave truth to the mind that lay behind it. Only the words he used and the tone in which he delivered them did so, the language and delivery reflected in the wariness or resignation of the eyes of the Council members.

  When he had finished speaking, there was a long, protracted silence amongst those assembled. Finally, Drak Poel leaned forward in his seat, shaking his head. “This is a bold strategy you have presented us with, my Lord, even for you. I might add that it is also a bit foolish.” There were reluctant nods and murmurs between the other representatives.

  Longfellow smiled. He had expected this from Poel. The man spoke his mind, regardless of what others thought. As chief military strategist he viewed his role as a simple one, to advise his Steward of the safest and most convenient way to win battles. The Northern Army’s continued expansion into the Drague Territories was to his way of thinking hazardous and unnecessary, serving not the good of the city state but merely the ambition of its Steward. He had for some time thought Longfellow was overstepping the boundaries of his office, yet strictly speaking it was not his place to openly voice this opinion. Longfellow had sensed his Vice-Steward’s influence on Poel, before he had used Tan Wrock to confirm it. The irony was that Scrot Manch did not care in the least whether all or none of the Drague Territories were conquered. He merely wanted the seat of Steward for himself and straightforward men in key positions like Poel were useful pawns to have on your side to achieve this goal. He glanced at his Vice-Steward now to gauge his reaction, but Manch was keeping his own council, his expression neutral. “Our expansion into territories east of here,” Longfellow said, turning to Poel, “are not the cause of foolish whim but an opportunity to safeguard the citadel and the city state against forces that might use the east as a staging point for battles waged against Brinemore. All we seek is protection against those who view us as an emerging power in the Northern Earth and thus a threat against which they would focus their aggression.” He switched his gaze to the assembly. “Do not delude yourselves, noble gentlemen, that we have no enemies either in the Northern Territories or outside and can remain where we are. This is wrong thinking, this idea of resting on our laurels, and it serves to weaken the state we have fought so hard to build and maintain.”

  “But the Drague tribes are primitive and unsophisticated. They don’t have the proper means to defend themselves.” It was Poon, a Home Guard assistant, who spoke. The other representatives turned to look at her. Longfellow was not phased, however. He smiled at the normally demure assistant.“These aren’t peaceful natives we’re talking about,” he said. “They demonstrated their aggression a year ago when several tribes crossed over into the Northern Territories, carrying bows, arrows and torches, and began to pillage and burn villages close to the border. The inhabitants didn’t stand a chance, according to our scouts. Those who survived became refugees in the larger towns of neighbouring regions. If we had ignored this development and not gone to the aid of those towns, they too would have been destroyed. What would you have us do, wait patiently until they arrived at the gates of the citadel and ask them politely to go home?”

  Poon lowered her head, saying nothing.

  Brinemore’s principal trade adviser then spoke. “I can add good news to this discussion, namely that we have initiated the development of commerce with a handful of tribes deep within the Territories that produce and sell certain textiles that are needed in the city. Those we have talked with have a good understanding of the uses and benefits of trade and have already committed to placing large orders with us.” An excited murmur rose and fell among the ranks of the assembly. “What materials are they using?” asked one member. “How many orders have they agreed to?” asked another. “Who in the citadel will this benefit?” The questions continued- those who posed them met with answers to varying degrees of satisfaction- until the Speaker called for order and the second topic of the day was presented for the Council members’ consideration.

  Longfellow tabled the discussion briefly before the issues presented in the topic were raised by asking for a majority vote to support the criminalisation of the practice of sorcery in the Northern and Eastern Territories, including certain outlying areas that presented a threat to the city state such as Fein Mor, the seat of the Druidic order. It was passed unanimously, the council members eager to get on with the other matter. Longfellow smiled to himself. He had slipped this through at the right moment. The assembly turned its attention to matters south of Brinemore.

  Drak Poel asked the relevant question: “Is the Cru Dynasty complicit with Brinemore in its plans to expand deep into its Southern Territories?”

  Longfellow paused significantly before answering this question, turning his gaze on each of the Council members before addressing Poel. “They are aware of our strength,” he said, his eyes boring into Poel’s, “and do not wish to engage in battle with us. Neither do they want to deal from a position of weakness. As most of you here today are aware, I met with their King in this very building and he intimated to me that he would be willing to trade goods with Brinemore. Since then he has indicated to me that our relationship might be a primarily economic one. The Cru lands are vast- they make up virtually the entire Southern Territories, from Worts End to Hollow’s Peak west to east and from the borderlands north to the South Coast- and it would be inadvisable, not to mention costly and time consuming, to take on the might of the family that rules them.”

  Whispers rippled through the ranks of the assembly. This was not something they had expected. War, they had thought, had been Longfellow’s idea all along. Because of this, some among their number had begun to listen to Poel talk about how their Steward had become a liability, unaware that this climate of unease was exactly what Manch had fostered through Poel. Now they suddenly found themselves in a situation where they were forced to re-examine this thinking. No war. A trade deal instead. The members of the assembly exchanged looks, relief the predominant emotion mirrored on their faces.

  “This trade agreement involves the exchange of textiles, minerals and precious metals, some of which we have and some we need. It is to happen soon and needs only the approval of this Council to begin in principal. Some of you will have questions and these will be addressed after your initial approval, which I must stress is not a veto but simply an agreement to consider our options. Do I have this?” He faced down the assembly, his features a broad, open plain of reason and logic.

  But Poel was not finished. “This seems a profitable and peaceful way forward, my Lord, but,” he turned to the Council members, “it only appears to be so. What about the illegal exchange of unlicensed goods between north and south? How does that factor into a suggested trading union between two obvious powers in the Northern Earth? And what of our strict migration laws? Will we now have to accept an influx of undesirable types who can no longer tolerate life spent under Cru rule? Perhaps my Lord has overlooked some obvious disadvantages in his haste to secure a deal with the King.”

  The Steward appeared to have anticipated Poel’s objections, however, and countered them swiftly with solutions. “My Chief military adviser is right to be cautious and indeed there is an illegal trade of goods and services between the Northern and Southern Territories, a trade that has existed since before the reign of the Cru Dynasty. It has been around since the first warlords staked their claim on the Northern Earth many thousands of years ago and with goods that presented far more of a threat to the fabric of society that existed then. I cannot promise you that this will suddenly disappear- you understand how unreasonable such a pledge would be- but I shall commit to punish severely t
hose I catch engaging in illegal activity of any kind. As regards migration between north and south, we live in times where such a privilege is allowable, where freedom of movement is not only desirable for economic reasons but a necessary ingredient of a trading union between two great lands. The Cru King has acknowledged this in our brief talks and indicated to me that he does not hold his public in suffrage- they are free to leave or remain as they wish. Should this have been a different state of affairs we might have allowed ourselves to grow concerned, for example, about a large cross-migration of refugees fleeing a totalitarian state. This is not the case. The King’s people are more citizens than subjects. Indeed, he has intimated that he styles his Kingdom, in part at least, on the model of success that Brinemore enjoys, democratically as well as economically.”

  Karsin Longfellow seated himself, permitting the Speaker to wind proceedings down. Before the meeting finished, a motion was called to accept or reject the trade agreement between the Northern and Southern Territories. It was accepted by the majority of the Council. Longfellow took note that his Vice-Steward Manch voted in favour of it and smiled to himself. Manch could not be seen to openly disagree with his Steward as this turned the spotlight where it was not wanted, namely on Manch. Only Poel and two others rejected the idea. Later that evening, when Longfellow sat in the comfort of his private quarters, having poured himself wine from a flask and warmed himself against a fireplace filled with crackling sticks of pine, he reflected on what needed to be done. Action had to be taken against Poel. His chief military strategist had made a stand against him today that couldn’t be ignored, regardless of the outcome of the meeting. People would talk and the nature of that talk would serve to undermine his authority. The Council, like the Confederation, was an autonomous, independent entity which allowed, in theory at least, for a free and open exchange of ideas and opinions. Longfellow, however, whose notion of democracy idled somewhere between a vague sense of freedom and a useful tool to achieve the ends he desired, effectively controlled the Council and that in turn depended on unanimous decision making. He categorised leadership in two types: an autocratic rule and leadership by consensus. He had no time for the latter.

  The decision to remove Poel as a threat, indeed the taking of the man’s life which was the only practical way to do this, did not weigh heavily on his conscience. What bothered him was the timing of such an action, how Poel’s sudden removal would look to the Council. He sipped some of his wine and pondered this difficulty. And if his Vice-Steward should pass away at the same time? No one else in the Council knew of Manch’s conspiracy with Poel. Could both their deaths be staged to look like an unfortunate event, and draw attention away from himself? How would that be achieved? If he were to kill only one of them, which one would that be, his secretly scheming Vice-Steward or his openly critical adviser? And what of the rest of the conspirators?

  He took another sip, savouring the liquid on his palate, coming to a decision. It was time to contact Tan Wrock.

  20.

  The mood of the trio that set out from the relative safety of the Druid’s keep for the Northern Territories was as dark as the skies that overhung them. The clouds seemed permanently to split, sending spitting rain onto their hoods and cloaks and- assisted by strong winds that swept in sudden gusts across the land through which they walked- onto their faces and inside their robing. Thicker clouds drifted into view, foretelling an approaching storm that promised a continuous supply of rain by fall of evening. The storm’s shadow tracked them like an uncompromising hunter, ridding the countryside of its green and brown hue, the waters they passed robbed of their silver-blue tint, the movement of insects and animals reduced to very little as they crept and huddled beneath shelters. Smaller, winged insects flew past the travellers as they walked, some of them lighting on their faces, disturbing the Englishmen in particular. Christopher and Simon angrily brushed them away but Daaynan did not appear bothered, his expression lost within the folds of his hood. He walked a little ahead of the two, his tall frame stooped against the buffeting wind yet otherwise appearing immune to the elements, bent in private contemplation.

  Tempers were short between the two friends. Simon, unable to reach the Druid, vented his frustration on Christopher instead. His conversation with the latter kept returning to the same topic. With the horses gone, their journey would take them two weeks on foot. The Raja had a four day start on them and it took merely three days to reach Brinemore on horseback. Even allowing for what Daaynan had said about Iridis needing to walk the steeds part of the way and having to change horses halfway, he still held a major advantage over them. Christopher began by agreeing with him, then shortly lost interest and snapped at the former, telling him that it was he who had suggested the Druid was their best chance of getting back home. Was he about to change his mind after hitting some rough weather? That silenced him. The knowledge that either one of them could have earlier taken advantage of the Druid’s weakened state to get him to take them home lay between them like an uneasy truce. For his part, Christopher had, somewhat at least, regressed to the state of mind he had evidenced upon arriving in these lands. If Simon hadn’t known better, if their situation hadn’t rendered the idea impossible, he would have said the other had taken up drinking once again. He watched his friend roll and list into the wind, forgetting himself for a moment, grimly smiling at how the weather could make drunkards out of the best of us.

  The day ground on toward evening and they set up camp beneath a short yet deep overhang of solid rock jutting from a cliff base. When it came, the storm closed swiftly about them, tightening fast around the cliff, tearing loose earth, branches and stones, sending them spinning in the turning wind. The travellers retreated further into the cave to a point which the rain and wind could not reach and fashioned a crude fire from sticks Daaynan urged them to gather, the flames themselves summoned from a simple gesture made by the Druid. It seemed he had not lost all of his powers. Daaynan motioned them to draw around the fire, speaking nearly for the first time since they had set out from Fein Mor earlier in the day.

  “We shall stay here for the night. Progress will be impossible under the full force of this weather.” He stared at Simon from within the depths of his cowl, adding as if reading the latter’s mind: “The other will be forced to take similar precautions so we have lost no ground, Englishman.” Simon opened his mouth to speak but the other made a thin yet unmistakeable warding gesture. “I have a plan which will help us shorten the journey to reach Brinemore before Iridis does, but first we must renew our supplies. To do this we...”

  “Didn’t you bring food and drink from the castle?” Simon ventured, crestfallen. “There was enough there to last six months, or a year!”

  Daaynan glared at him. “Listen to me Englishman, and don’t interrupt. Our survival depends on our ability to plan forward. That and more, if we are fortunate enough to live through the next few days. It certainly does not revolve around indulging in regret or past actions we are unable to settle in our favour.” Simon nodded reluctantly, falling silent. The sorcerer’s gaze softened minutely. “Iridis poisoned the store of food in the keep. He took whatever he could bring that was ready to eat, which did not leave much, and placed an Asp in the storeroom. This creature occurs naturally as a type of viper but it is possible the King made it over into something far more venomous and set it to work on our supplies.” A look crossed the Druid’s face, gone in an instant. It was a searching glance, as if he expected them to say something. What that was, Simon had no idea, yet for a moment the other’s expression held something other than its previous grim forbidding. Daaynan continued, “I was able to take some drink with us- the Asp did not contaminate the store of liquids- and salvaged what was left of the prepared food.” He reached into the bag he wore slung over one shoulder and produced some cuts of dried meat and fruit wrapped in paper, portioning it out among the company. The Englishmen ate heartily, taking great gulps of the liquid as it too was passed around. The Druid sl
owly chewed his food, looking out through the entrance of the cave into the driving wind and sheeting rain. When he had finished he washed down his meal with what remained of the water and put the flask back in his bag, then turned to the others.

  “There is food enough for another day, water for two. However, there is a town near here- Carasan- where we can replenish our supplies. If the storm has passed by tomorrow morning we should reach it by mid-afternoon.”

  That’s more time wasted, Simon thought. However, he did not give voice to his objection. Instead he asked “What kind of place is it?”

  “It’s a trading town,” the other said, “filled for the most part with working people from Ara Fein, the region in which we are situated. They are friendly to outsiders and will do business with us, exchanging what we have for food and drink.”

  “I don’t mean to be dispiriting but what exactly do we have that’s of any value to them?”

  “Leave that to me,” was all the Druid said.

  The company slept poorly that night, the Englishmen turning frequently, unable to find a comfortable position on the bed of sparse plants and clay-like earth that floored the shelter. Daaynan rested upright against a sheet of smooth rock, never quite asleep, one eye half lidded to keep watch against a potential intruder that might stumble into the cave. They got up early the next morning to discover that the storm had indeed abated some- the wind had died down to a strong gust and the rain was intermittent and not as heavy. They set out in the direction of Carasan, Daaynan leading a few paces ahead of the Englishmen. The land carried that sterile look it always captured in the effect of a storm. They passed vales and gorges that were completely flooded, selecting a route that detoured around impassable roadways littered with fallen trees and debris from wind-pitched dwellings. The countryside they passed through had a barren, almost witchy beauty that drew everything into sharper focus, the early morning sun highlighting in red the sprawl of land that rolled to the horizon framed by hill summits and crisp verdant treetops. Simon was relieved at first to be walking again- his muscles were tired and sore from sleeping on that hard surface and his bones ached. He was sure Christopher was feeling the same but he hadn’t responded to several attempts to engage him in conversation. His friend had withdrawn into himself, Simon noted, just like he had in Italy before all of this started. It had been drink which did for him back then, it couldn’t be that now... . Struck by a sudden terrible thought, he walked over to Christopher and clasped his hand on the other’s shoulder. Christopher shrugged it off in irritation, continuing to walk, not bothering to glance around to see who had touched him. Simon gripped him once more, moving alongside him, leaning in close to smell the other’s breath. Whiskey!