Hyddenworld: Spring Bk. 1 (Hyddenworld Quartet 1)

by William Horwood

  Dowty lived alone because that meant he was not subject to others’ domestic inefficiency. He preferred simple food, generally eaten raw, because cooking and washing-up absorbed valuable time. He had no leisure activities, because he thought they served no purpose. He would never use two words if one would do, and often he used none at all. Though not totally devoid of normal mortal impulses where matters of the heart and flesh were concerned, he suppressed them as being mere time-wasters.

  Yet Dowty had friends, though not many, mainly people like himself who were wedded only to efficiency and finding strategies to improve it. One such soul mate had been Brunte’s late predecessor, Finial Fane, who had shared with the transport manager an obsessive love of numbers and efficiency. It was through him that Brunte had met Dowty and learned that he possessed an extraordinary, perhaps unique, natural gift: he could tell the time without reference to a chronometer. In fact he could count the time with an accuracy greater than any chronometer.

  It happened that Fane, before his death, had asked his friend about the source of this gift in Brunte’s presence. Dowty could only suggest that it was like tuning in to a universal clock, though not one which possessed a tick or any mechanism. Rather, he said, it was an inner rhythm, as if by some freak chance his body had been aligned or attuned to the rhythms of the Universe itself.

  It was that word ‘Universe’ which had struck a chord in Brunte’s mind, and that association, along with the fact that Dowty was by far the most efficient and reliable of the ten Councillors, decided Brunte that this was someone who might have his uses.

  Brunte summoned a meeting of the Quentors, timing it deliberately to coincide with the start of Festoon’s party at midday, insisting that this meeting would not take long but was crucially important.

  The elderly Quentors, who habitually left no doubt in Brunte’s mind that they regarded him as their minion, protested at having to delay their arrival at the festivities, but they were persuaded to do so by his urgency. Brunte arranged a meeting place just two floors below the Orangery itself, and the chamber chosen was ill-lit and damp, a rough desk and chairs hurriedly assembled. The Quentors were rather surprised to see several of Brunte’s guards posted outside, under the command of Meyor Feld. ‘Sub-Quentor,’ one of them asked impatiently, the moment they sat down, ‘what exactly is this about?’

  Brunte explained to them about the ancient statute of admonishment and argued that it was his duty, and theirs, to enforce it.

  They were reluctant to do so, not understanding why it was an issue, or why he was being so tiresomely formal about this matter, since his predecessors had turned a blind eye to Council members’ absence from the birthday party.

  ‘We need to keep our books in order, gentlemen, in case we undergo an Inspection,’ he explained. An Inspection, conducted by Fyrd sent over from the heartland, was a matter of dread for the administrators of all hydden cities.

  ‘Is one imminent?’ one asked anxiously. ‘I myself have not heard of it!’

  ‘There has not been one for so long here in Brum that I fear one may be impending,’ replied Brunte, his smile wide and warm, as if he was merely doing them a favour by raising the issue. ‘So do I have your permission to visit these three Councillors who intend not to attend the High Ealdor’s feste and formally admonish them on your behalf?’

  The Quentors prevaricated.

  Two of the people concerned – Elon and Wick – wielded considerable power. The third, Dowty, was an obsessive who nobody would miss anyway.

  One of them heard the shuffling of feet outside.

  ‘Are those guards out there really necessary, Brunte?’ one of them inquired dismissively.

  Brunte’s eyes glinted, for he liked neither the tone nor the manner of delivery. In silence he got up and summoned Feld.

  ‘The Quentors want to know why you’re here, Meyor.’

  Feld replied smoothly, ‘There has been general unrest, gentlemen, in the wake of word unfortunately getting out that the Council of Ten has ordered a Seal. We are only here for your safety. On this particular day of the year things can sometimes get out of hand.’

  Considering the possibility of danger to their own persons, this was not something they could argue with.

  ‘Well, then,’ one of them began, ‘we don’t want to spend all afternoon on this business, so let’s at least talk about it.’

  They conferred among themselves for a minute or two.

  ‘You may certainly visit Councillors Wick and Dowty, if you must,’ Brunte was told, ‘but you must leave General Elon strictly alone. It would hardly be politic to admonish him!’

  They even laughed, as if the idea was absurd.

  ‘And anyway, Sub-Quentor,’ added one of the others, using a tone of cold, superior irony that was not lost on Brunte, ‘even someone as persuasive as yourself would hardly find the right words to reprimand such a superior officer.’

  ‘You could be right!’ replied Brunte, with such seeming good humour that they all laughed. ‘Yet you would agree, as would surely the General himself, that under the rules he too needs admonishing?’

  They shifted about a bit, more interested now in getting to the festivity than in a mere technical wrongdoing by one of the most powerful Fyrd in the city.

  ‘We might think that, but it would be unwise to declare it officially.’

  ‘Unofficially?’

  ‘Statutorily, yes, he should be here too, but, well . . .’

  ‘Well, he has very good reason for absence during a time of potential floods, a fact I suggest we officially minute,’ said Igor Brunte, adding jovially, ‘but he should be here, and he isn’t, and that’s a fact as well.’

  ‘It is a fact, Mister Brunte! Now, can we . . . ?’

  ‘Of course, but let us at least also minute your . . . shall, we say dismay at his absence. That word will amply cover the situation should any Inspection ever be made and this matter raised – should it not?’

  Uneasily they supposed it might.

  Brunte signalled his clerk, Doam, to minute this ‘decision’ and then got the unwilling Quentors to initial it.

  The moment it was done, Doam handed up the book to Brunte for examination. The Sub-Quentor looked at it closely, smiled with satisfaction, tucked the book under his arm and stood up, his smile fading.

  ‘Thank you gentlemen. Feld, see the Quentors now to a place of safety, and return here immediately!’

  The room quickly filled with guards who surrounded the Quentors and led them protesting from the room, and from there down the metal stairs leading into the darkness of the corridors below.

  ‘Where are you . . . ?’

  ‘This is not . . . ’

  ‘You cannot do this . . .’

  But Feld did, with the willing help of the guards.

  Brunte sat back down at the table, listening to the fading footsteps of the Quentors below and the growing sounds of revelry above. There was silence where he was, and peace.

  Doam meanwhile said nothing.

  Brunte stared at the Minute Book.

  Only when Feld returned with two of his guards did Brunte rise.

  ‘It is done,’ said Feld grimly. ‘They will be a problem to you no longer.’

  ‘Good,’ said Brunte. ‘Now, gentlemen, we have very important work to do.’

  They reached General Elon’s well-guarded residence twenty minutes later, and demanded to see him in the name of the Quentors.

  Lieutenant Backhaus appeared.

  ‘I am here to administer an Admonishment,’ announced Brunte formally, holding out a copy of the Quentors’ minute prepared by Doam.

  Backhaus read it quickly and shook his head in surprise and disbelief: ‘I don’t think this is wise, do you?’

  ‘Are you refusing us entrance?’

  ‘No, Sub-Quentor, I am not.’

  Brunte smiled and followed Backhaus inside. There was already an unspoken understanding between them. Backhaus’s conflicts with Elon were well-known.
/>
  ‘Your men can stay outside,’ said Backhaus.

  ‘They could, but I need witnesses.’

  ‘Brunte, this is ridiculous.’

  ‘Let’s get it over with,’ said Brunte, pushing past him.

  They found Elon in his private quarters, flanked by an orderly. He was still in uniform.

  ‘Sub-Quentor?’ he said formally, with evident surprise and annoyance.

  Brunte looked apologetic and explained that, much against his own advice and judgement, the Quentors had decided that in view of Elon’s absence from the festivities he should be admonished.

  Elon’s response was frank: ‘I have better things to attend to than Festoon’s foolery, so now you’ve done your duty, I stand admonished and you can leave.’

  ‘But we have not,’ replied Brunte with a dangerous smile, ‘yet done our duty.’

  Elon’s eyes widened in surprise, and then in alarm, as the smiling Brunte stepped forward and pulled out his knife.

  Then, in one well-practised movement, he clasped one large hand firmly behind Elon’s neck, and with the other thrust the point hard and fast into the General’s right lung.

  Elon half-screamed, half-grunted and raised one hand in protest. Brunte brushed it aside and thrust the blade into him again, this time piercing his stomach.

  The orderly stared open-mouthed as his superior officer fell sideways. Letting out short, deep gasps, he hit the floor and his legs began shaking uncontrollably.

  Brunte turned to Backhaus. ‘Finish him off,’ he ordered.

  It was his way of getting the young officer to become party to the ‘Admonishment’. It was also the best possible way of testing him.

  Backhaus looked from the fallen Elon to Brunte, and back again.

  Elon was immobile but still conscious, his eyes filled with pain, fear and bewilderment. He watched as the young officer unsheathed his own knife. Backhaus bent down to his stricken commanding officer, stared briefly into his eyes without compassion, and thrust the knife into his heart. Elon shivered briefly and died.

  ‘It is done,’ said Backhaus, pulling away and turning round. He stared unflinchingly into Brunte’s eyes.

  Opportunity comes only once – that is a basic message in the training of Fyrd fighters. It is not necessarily true, but is as good a four-word mantra as any.

  Backhaus said, ‘There’ll be no need not to trust me, sir. I am with you. Elon was not a worthy commanding officer. Nor are any of his personal staff worth much either, or even to be trusted.’

  ‘You know who needs to be dealt with?’ inquired Brunte.

  Backhaus nodded.

  ‘Then do it, and wait here for my further instructions. You’ll follow that order carefully?’

  ‘To the letter, Sub-Quentor. There are many junior Fyrd under Elon’s command ready to support an insurrection against the Sinistral. It will not be hard.’

  ‘Many, Lieutenant Backhaus?’

  ‘Not yet a majority, but they are well placed and after today . . .’

  ‘It is today that matters in terms of who I shall trust, not those who join us after it. Be watchful, Backhaus. Survive this day and you will have my favour. Understood?’

  Backhaus was not entirely sure he did but he nodded all the same.

  Brunte strode out of Elon’s quarters as calmly as he had walked in. Backhaus began herding Elon’s frightened staff together with the help of Elon’s shocked adjutant, in preparation for eliminating those he decided he could not rely on.

  Brunte now looked different, almost smelt different: he had that aura of command and power about him that comes to one who has assumed it forcibly. He glanced at his chronometer, and his waiting men gathered close.

  ‘We shall now admonish Mr Wick,’ he said. ‘That need not take us long.’

  Nor did it. They found Wick naked in bed with his long-term mistress. They killed them both, right where they lay, leaving them obscenely entwined together for Wick’s wife to find in her marriage bed.

  Brunte knew well enough the note of fear this would instil in the cosy world of Brum’s upper echelons. He fully understood the value of a reputation, and that, on this day of days, his own was in the making.

  His last visit was to Hrap Dowty, whose operation room – from which Brum’s complex transport system was supervised – lay within a stone’s throw of the Warwick and Birmingham Canal’s aqueduct, beneath the River Rea side of the old Corporation Wharf.

  All the walls but one were just bare, dirty-yellow brick. The exception was a steel wall, painted dull grey, which sloped steeply upwards at the same angle as an attic room built into the eaves.

  But this, Brunte knew, was no attic wall.

  Blue light filtered down onto shiny tables whose upper surfaces were in fact exquisitely drawn maps of the city.

  Over the impressive room, which was a hive of constant activity, Dowty presided from a simple wooden chair placed before a simple wooden desk. His clothes were simple too, tailored of brown fustian without any ostentation or ornament, except for a solitary dark red flash on his right shoulder, the distinctive mark of a Councillor.

  ‘Sub-Quentor,’ he said by way of greeting, when Brunte arrived flanked by his people. A wave of fear swept across the faces of Dowty’s assistants, but his own remained impassive.

  ‘Councillor,’ replied Brunte with a slight smile. ‘Your report this morning was well received, I think. Will there indeed be flooding?’

  ‘Unlikely, on the scale implied,’ said Dowty, ‘but nevertheless some. Organizing the Seal was a wise precaution anyway, quite apart from its usefulness in your own enterprise. But I suggest we begin to undo it soon. Has the party begun?’

  ‘Well under way. However, if word gets to Festoon’s residence before my work is done, it is possible there will be some escapes and even counter-attacks. You yourself will be targeted no doubt, therefore I am leaving three guards here with you. You are not to leave until summoned by one of my people, and all your staff should remain here as well. If anyone visits, they are not to be allowed to leave, but my own people will see to that.’

  Shivering slightly, Dowty stood up and shut his eyes, then opened them again.

  ‘You are three minutes and four seconds ahead of the schedule, Sub-Quentor. That is good, but you had better leave now, for the River Rea is rising fast at Montague III.’

  He pressed a button on his desk. The steel wall immediately behind him began to rise.

  ‘Which is where exactly?’ wondered Brunte. He realized he liked Dowty – liked his precision and his jargon. It gave him a feeling of security.

  ‘It is here,’ replied Dowty. ‘Montague III is our own section here.’

  Watery, racing, mottled light replaced the steel wall as it disappeared somewhere above them. For what it now revealed was a second wall, this one of thick plate glass, across part of which the river flowed, the higher section being spray and sky and not much else. The river’s constant roar sounded loud.

  ‘Do not take the lower route to Curzon Street,’ advised Dowty. ‘Instead take the upper one by Proof House Lane. Do you know it?’

  Brunte confirmed that he did.

  ‘Until later then,’ he continued, ‘when all will become clearer than it is now. You had better get your replacement ready, Councillor.’

  ‘That I have done long since,’ said Dowty. ‘Now, if you will forgive me, we have reports from Deritend.’ He turned away to attend to them.

  But Brunte stayed where he was, his eyes glinting suddenly red and flinty.

  ‘Councillor!’ he said sharply.

  Dowty turned back, slight alarm in his expression.

  ‘Never turn your back on me again,’ said Brunte, ‘not ever. It is . . . impolite.’

  Dowty stared at him, processing this new information.

  ‘I never will,’ he promised.

  72

  PARTY OVER

  The climax of Festoon’s party was the parade of the Sisters Chaste before his mock throne so that amids
t much jollity he might choose one of them to be his Birthday Bride.

  This ritual was an ancient one, dating back to medieval times when the question of succession was an important one for cities such as Brum. For without a successor there was no continuity and without more than one heir there was insecurity. The Chaste Sisters were the young virgins among the Sisters of Charity, and the selection of one of them each year by the High Ealdor was a means to that end.

  The Chosen One was allowed to spend a single night in the High Ealdor’s bed, after which she was sequestered for nine lonely months, watched over by the most senior Sisters of Charity. Many produced no heir and were returned to ordinary sisterhood; a few bore young, and these became heirs to the throne of Brum. On them the future relied.

  By Raster Avon’s time the ritual had lost this traditional significance and was simply an occasion for japery and fun – the Chosen One being a mere symbolic bride for the day whose reward was not a night in the bed of a ruler but a pendant disc of gold-plated base metal, fashioned and bejewelled in the imagined guise of the mythic pendant that Beornamund had made for Imbolc and with which, it was still hoped, she travelled down the years.

  Under Festoon the ritual had an edge that was bitter-sweet, for how could it ever be that one such as he, so obscenely obese, so evidently the last in the now corrupted Avon line, should have need of a bride, or the interest or even the competence to father a child upon her?

  So while most folk clapped and laughed, those of them who knew the history of the tradition and understood its importance could hardly bear to look.

  With a roll of great tibla drums of the Russian steppe and a fanfare of tuble horns the crowd was marshalled around the edges of the Orangery and an expectant hush fell.

  For a brief moment total darkness descended, until one by one spotlights shone onto the floor into which red-silked tumblers somersaulted and held still. Then they began tumbling in and out of the orange trees, plucking fruit as they went which they hurled high above everyone’s head such that they arced into final descent to the hands of jugglers who threw them back up again to arch back and forth across the room, caught in light and an endless stream of colour.