Aside from its beauty and their own soaring spirits, the song’s cadences also brought emptiness when it finally ceased. It left a void only it could really fill, and so they all stood silently awaiting more but it never came. Instead, a series of scales began, and so Melkin leant forward once more and quietly closed the window.
The music had certainly given wider form to Melkin’s thoughts, his own singular notes now drawing together towards a revealing overture. He turned to Pettar with earnestness and compunction in his voice. “What Storbanther is after seems, for the time being at least, no longer to exist. If he’s after Lord Nephril’s knowledge of the old language then he’s going to be sadly disappointed, but we may have a remedy.”
Pettar’s hopes burned brighter when Melkin put forward his proposal. “Although you can only deliver damaged goods from your errand, Pettar, you can at least add compensation in part, can put before Storbanther one who has at least a fair knowledge of the old tongue. You can take me with you, Pettar, take me with you to Galgaverre.”
Although he’d tried his best, Melkin couldn’t quite keep the excitement and hope from his voice, but Pettar’s awe blinded him to it anyway. In fact, Pettar was already adding more weight to the offer in his own way, was remembering Melkin’s assistance on the journey, seeing the benefit an extra pair of hands had brought and how assiduously he’d seen to Nephril.
Storbanther’s instructions had been clear and succinct, but hadn’t actually excluded the prospect of more than just the two of them being involved. No, Pettar had simply been charged to assist in whatever course came from Nephril’s reading of the message, and that now plainly and quite sensibly appeared to include Melkin Mudark.
11 Galgaverre
A mere twenty miles from Yuhlm, Galgaverre lay just beyond Bazarral’s most eastern reach, safe in its own obscure isolation. Not far at all, but it may as well have been a world away. It hid its mesh of interwoven structures low down behind a protective moat, rampart and a squat fortified wall, and was spread out across a vast, sunken and perfectly flat plain. Only its centre held aught that reached much above its low wall top.
There was nowhere in Bazarral even remotely lofty enough to see into it, only Mount Esnadac’s Upper Reaches could do that, but from there all detail was usually lost to the haze and distance.
So, from Yuhlm’s own sunken depths Galgaverre was little more than a name on people’s lips, an almost mythic place away in some eastern fable. Even the college’s elevated perch fell woefully short, its eastern prospect interrupted by the wooded rise of the city’s basin.
That morning, after a restful night, the college had furnished yet more pillows and cushions for Nephril, before they’d all gathered once more at the main gate. There were a number of ways to Galgaverre but the one Pettar would have preferred, for its empty streets, would have presented the most arduous for their handcart and its precious load. So, it had been Melkin who’d devised their route and spared them Smiddles Lane.
His preference took them onto an even narrower way around the south side of the old mill’s ancient wall, one that clung nervously above a steep, tree-covered escarpment. It soon brought them onto the slope behind the college, towards the east, through the claustrophobic press of dense woodland that raked their steady climb.
At its end was Nordgang Road, a major thoroughfare that ran through the northern districts of the city, starting in the west at Weysget and going all the way to Eyesget in the east. Its eastern end led into Weyswal Way, a broad but little used street that ran beside Galgaverre’s western wall. It would, though, take them most of the day to reach its southern end and there come to Galgaverre’s only gateway, and an uncertain welcome.
It was actually well after noon when they reached Weyswal Way. The district there was always deserted, its properties sad and faded and deathly quiet. Mostly low lying and sparsely set, they allowed longer views across their dusty and dilapidated gardens onto a landscape seemingly yet drier and more barren still, devoid of much in the way of greenery to sooth the eye.
The place seemed a small intimation of the great desert away to the east - the Plain of the New Sun - itself a long way from the jutting Scarra Face that stared at it from beyond the Esnadales to the north.
Pettar always felt disquieted whenever he passed this way, which wasn’t often, but today it seemed a particularly strong sentiment, despite the weather having stayed bright and warm. Even with the sun’s gloss it still felt deeply forbidding.
It was only now that Galgaverre’s presence could be felt, but only just. Its low boundary rampart was surmounted by an equally low wall, both of which sat well back by virtue of a broad moat, so much so they each seemed to shrink away from being seen. It was made even less conspicuous by the wall’s dull leaden colour and the fact it bore no rising watchtowers, nothing more than castellation to break its unremitting line.
It took only a few tedious hours’ walk down the unremarkable Weyswal Way to draw near to Galgaverre’s gateway, for its simple bridge to come into sight some way ahead. In all that time, Pettar’s spirits had slowly sunk at the prospect of once more being within Galgaverre’s stifling confines.
All of a sudden it seemed, there he was, before that very gate, and still woefully unprepared, stilled and staring, the handcart’s shafts gripped tightly and sweatily in his hands. He stood in the shadows and steeled himself for the imminent challenge ahead, beyond that stark and austere entrance. Somehow, on the edge of Bazarral’s diminutive and homely setting, it all looked so anachronistic, so alien and threatening.
Here and there along the avenue, burdened figures were about their daily chores; the men short of stature, broad and muscular, the women taller, lithe and easy of movement, broad hipped and full lipped. Although hurrying about their business, none crossed that drawbridge nor entered in through the gateway beyond.
Upon the dull grey, leaden wall, figures in bright orange robes passed purposefully between the turrets that bordered the gate. They winked from behind dark merlons and into view in the crenels of its battlements. Bald headed, tall and angularly thin, they paced leisurely back and forth, at times stopping to chat or to look out across the roofs of Bazarral, or down into its warren of ways.
Two stood to attention on the gatehouse, long spears held upright and heads shaded from the lowering sun by vaulted canopies.
From where Melkin and Pettar still stood, they could see nothing of what lay beyond the wall, no glimpse of roofs or towers, no hint of the vast area enclosed.
Pettar’s eyes were fixed, mouth set thin and strained, resolve beginning to well from deep within. Melkin patiently waited as the sun slanted short shadows down the avenue before them, pointing the way. The more time passed, the more Melkin worried. He stole looks at Pettar from the corners of his eyes, but each time found his face unchanged, eyes fixed only on the gateway.
Pettar suddenly instructed, “Speak not a word unless you’re spoken to and then keep your answers short, to the point. Keep behind me and close in, and don’t ask any questions. Is that clear?” Melkin just nodded. “Very well, then we now enter Galgaverre to deliver our charge, whether we be expected or not.”
Out of the shadow they walked, Pettar purposefully drawing the handcart ahead with Melkin bringing up the rear, their combined shadows still pointing the way to the drawbridge. Melkin noticed a change in activity on the wall as they drew near, as their intent became more obvious and their strange attire more evident.
The sentries snapped to keener attention and closely followed their progress onto the wooden planking of the bridge, their hollow footfall and the handcart’s rumbling wheels filling Melkin’s ears with trepidation. He soon felt exposed and vulnerable. Pettar’s abrupt halt, though, caught him unawares, and he only narrowly avoided running into the back of the handcart.
A commanding voice called down. “Declare your business, you who are gathered at our gate. State your names, your precincts and your purpose.”
Pettar lifted his face
to the red-robed figure. In an even and carrying voice he answered, “I am Pettar, a son of Galgaverre, of the family Garradish.”
He paused briefly to allow that name to resonate upon the battlements. “I am come home upon an errand of Master Storbanther and have with me one who has furthered that charge, an esteemed citizen of Dica.”
He was about to announce Melkin when a further, more relaxed voice called down. “Enter by the gate, Pettar, and bring your companion and your unusual burden with you. I’ll meet you below once you’ve come in.”
Melkin saw the new voice’s owner was also robed in red, but across his chest ran a gold sash, and he strode out of sight with great authority and confidence. Pettar turned briefly back to Melkin with a resigned look, before striding forward across the remaining span of the bridge and on between the retaining walls that cut through the mound. As they approached the gates, they slowly began to open outwards.
Melkin felt immediate and overpowering joy at having at long last broached Galgaverre’s walls. His mechanicking mind, however, soon became distracted and enthralled by the realisation that those very walls were fashioned from some dull and lustreless metal.
Once inside, the gates began to close behind them with a faint and distant whirring sound before softly thudding together at the hiss of escaping air. Melkin now saw they were trapped within a deep metal trench, and held between two sets of impregnable gates.
It was with some genuine and wholly shaming relief that he then saw a previously unnoticed doorway silently slide open. Through it came the red-robed and gold-sashed man, nimbly stepping over its high threshold.
“Hello Pettar, we were expecting you, but somewhat earlier, and not with a companion I must admit.” His voice had been sharp although he approached them leisurely, closely appraising Melkin with astute and intelligent eyes. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to introduce us.”
Pettar returned the hollow greeting with his own, but then began more formal introductions. “Sentinar Drax? May I present Steward Melkin of Yuhlm, in Bazarral, a truly esteemed citizen of Dica.” Drax nodded curtly before Pettar finished, with a hint of sarcasm, “My good companion? May I introduce Sentinar Drax, the esteemed Captain of this installation’s most accomplished Guard.”
Melkin smartly tipped his head forward a touch but said nothing.
Introductions over with, Drax allowed his fixed smile to dissolve and turned an only slightly disguised condescending look at Pettar. “We did expect you back well before now, but here you are at last, proof I suppose of the faith some seem to have in you still. So, I must stand corrected - on this one occasion.”
He smiled as he lifted his head and looked down his nose. “We’d better get Steward Melkin signed in, and you can leave your load here for the moment. We’ll have it checked through shortly.” Without waiting, he turned and strode back through the doorway, into its brightly lit interior. Melkin and Pettar made a quick and surreptitious check on Nephril before hurriedly following him.
The room within shone with a strange and flat, blue-white light, its source somehow hidden but its slightly flickering glow illuminating all things equally. By casting no shadows, their faces lost much of their relief, making them seem other than who they really were.
To their right as they entered, a counter ran the length of the short room, and behind it on the wall, many instruments and dials glimmered and winked their array of small coloured lights. Between the wall and the counter stood another robed figure, but this time in grey.
“A little formality, I’m afraid,” Drax began. “If you’d be so indulgent as to answer this attendant’s few questions then we can be on our way.”
Melkin turned and stood before the attendant who asked, in a flat, monotonic and measured voice, “Your name?”
“Mudark it is, Melkin Mudark.”
The attendant’s fingers nimbly flitted over the surface of the counter before he asked, “Mudarkitis Melkin Mudark, is that correct?”
Melkin looked lost and was turning to Pettar when an inner door slid silently open and disgorged an ancient, gold-robed stick of a man, short and with a pallid and drawn face, within which were set huge sparkling eyes of blue.
He stared hard at Melkin before turning to Pettar. “So, I tek it, it weren’t straightforward then, eh? Had some problems did thee?” He started and looked around the small room before quickly adding, somewhat earnestly, “Well, where’s Lord Nephril then?”
12 Life is but a Journey
The thing Melkin noticed more than the strange light, that somehow managed to diffuse into the room from nowhere, more than the dry and lifeless air filling it, was the almost inaudible thrum that tingled though his body. A thrum like the brush of the cut warp thread left on the loom when its cloth’s finally been cut free; when the loom’s idled to a jarring halt, only then to be engulfed in singing silence. A stubble reminder, a fringed hint, a tell-tale of industry and power brought to bear on fibre and fleece once more fashioned there.
Whereas in Yuhlm that familiar brushing feel would have whispered of a host of looms, here in this austere, impersonal room within Galgaverre’s only gatehouse, it seemed to speak of some other deeper, more unknowable force. Melkin could only speculate, for he’d been left quite alone, locked in with only his thoughts for company, whilst everyone else had earnestly attended to Nephril.
When they’d realised where he’d lain all that time, out in the handcart, frenetic activity had burst about them. The stick of a man had yelped as though scolded, had barked instructions at Sentinar Drax who’d then shouted orders at all and sundry. One of those orders had resulted in Melkin’s quick imprisonment, his being politely yet firmly shown to this sparse room, left to hear nothing more than the clang of its lock. He’d heard no vanishing footsteps and so wondered if his escort still stood without.
In fact, it was the yard thick metal walls and door that had masked his escort’s footfall, for they’d soon retraced their steps back to their Sentinar. They’d lifted Nephril from the makeshift sedan, as carefully as insensitive guards can, and taken him to another room where a small bed had been quickly made-up. There, they’d all stood around in mute indecision until the guards had been dismissed by the stick of a man - the man who went by the name of Storbanther Scaedwera.
He’d turned to Pettar and asked, “What th’eck’s wrong wi’ ‘im, eh, Pettar? Why’s ‘e so supine, like, eh? Where’s ‘is ‘ead got to, where, eh, tell me that?”
Pettar at first just squatted at Nephril’s side, where he gently removed an errant feather, a lone escapee from the sedan’s pillow, before slowly and carefully unfolding his story. He kept his gaze, though, firmly on Nephril’s face.
He told of Nephril’s discovery in some detail, and of the message’s delivery, but was more circumspect when it came to their time in Yuhlm, abbreviating events there so only the essentials came out. When his tale came to their meeting with Melkin, it starkly reminded Pettar of where the Steward now was. Of course he’d be safe, Pettar knew that well enough, but also knew that Melkin himself wouldn’t know.
That guilty thought drove Pettar to accredit Melkin, to broker his worth and value in Storbanther’s eyes. However much he lauded him, though, Storbanther remained dismissive. “Can’t ‘ave a Bazarran ‘ere, no, not in Galgaverre, d’ya hear. ‘Twouldn’t do. Nay, ain’t right ‘n won’t do at all. He’ll ‘ave to go.”
Storbanther turned and started opening the door, through which to command Melkin’s eviction, when Pettar remembered the Steward’s own reasoning. “No, Master Storbanther, there’s more to him than that. Wait a while, please. I’ll explain.” Storbanther paused, his hand still grasping the doorknob, but then turned his head back, questioningly.
At that moment Pettar saw both their faces, Melkin and Storbanther’s, one placed transparently over the other, and gulped. Ignoring their vast differences in age, he saw a surprising similarity, a likeness of type more than family or breeding. For the first time in his life he saw Bazarran feature
s spread over Storbanther’s face, but also saw the stark contrast in their natures. There was a gulf between them, a great emptiness in Storbanther that Melkin could have filled in quarts.
The slight movement of Storbanther’s hand at the doorknob prompted Pettar. “Think awhile, Master Storbanther. Hold back ‘til I reveal something of Steward Melkin that you may wish to keep near.”
Storbanther let go the handle and stood before Pettar. “Well? What should I know about our Bazarran?”
“We know Nephril to be safe in body but are wholly ignorant about his mind. Maybe you can discern more, or know more of his malady, but unless his mind returns you’ll have no access to his knowledge.” Pettar looked up at Storbanther. “He’s of no practical use to you in his present condition, not that I can see. He can’t bring any particular skill to bear that you may have been looking for ... such as his fluency in the ancient tongue, for example.”
Strangely enough there was no flicker of interest or surprise on Storbanther’s face. No, it was as though Pettar was talking to one of Mistress Clatterbrayk’s looms for all the wit shown. Eventually, though, a smile began to grow on Storbanther’s face that stretched to a grin. He lowered himself and sat on the floor beside Pettar, his back against the wall.
His words were now strangely affectionate, not warm and friendly exactly, but somehow welcoming. “Maybe thee’s learnt more, and learned it faster than I thought thee would, or maybe ‘tis t’Steward’s doing, but thee’s reasoned thee’s way further than I expected thee would. Aye, that I ‘ave to say.” Again he smiled but it held an oddly disquieting edge, as though hard practiced but poorly executed.
“What meks thee think I’ve need of ‘is Lordhip’s ancient voice then? Eh? ‘As tha reasoned out that t’message were writ in it? Eh? ‘Ave thee? An’ if so, ‘ow? Eh, tell me that? ‘Ow’s thee seen in what voice t’words were carried?”
Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2) Page 13