Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Absently, Nephril swept his eyes around the empty hall. “Hast there been no mourners, Que’Devit?”

  “A few. Not many it has to be said, maybe two or three hundred all morning but none since.”

  Only two or three hundred! Nephril’s eyes glazed as he remembered back to earlier such events. Folk then had queued to pay their last respects, winding their way through that very hall for sometimes two or three days in a row, as many again disappointed when the doors were finally closed against them. In those days, though, the castle had been filled with millions of royal subjects, with hundreds of thousands still beyond its walls, but even now, when they were so few, he’d still expected more.

  “Why are they staying away, Que’Devit? Why so few?”

  “We appear to be witnessing superstition’s return, Lord Nephril.” When Nephril’s eyebrows lofted, Que'Devit hurriedly explained, “It’s his majesty’s lack of issue that’s to blame. I know it sounds silly, but there’s a strange fiction rapidly gaining ground, fast being taken as truth.” He drew nearer Nephril, placed a hand lightly on his forearm and dropped his voice. “People are saying he’s … that he’s cursed.”

  Que’Devit smartly stood back, embarrassed, before averting his eyes until Nephril asked, “Cursed? How cursed?”

  Lord Que’Devit brought himself, with some difficulty, to reveal that talk was blaming the king for his own lack of issue, that he’d … but then he became lost for words. He shuddered and stood transfixed for a while before mumbling an apology, then hastily leaving the hall. Nephril gave King Namweed a last brief look, a resigned one, before chasing after Que’Devit.

  Que’Devit had left by the main door, out onto the wide sweep of steps that fronted the Great Hall, and there stood with an arm against one of the many columns that marched massively before it. He looked a little queasy, wan-faced and drawn, and refused to look Nephril in the eye. Even when Nephril challenged, “What say they about the king?” Que’Devit only cast him a quick glance before looking away, down the steps to the huddle of buildings at their feet.

  Nephril stared at Que’Devit’s profile. He watched it blindly look down onto the erratic flow of Dicans now spilling between the taverns below. Nephril continued to stare as the stale smell of cheap ale drifted to his nose, along with the wanton cry of street walkers to offend his ears. Eventually, Nephril’s pinning look finally stirred Que’Devit.

  “They say his marriage to Queen Solinda was a sham, do you know that? That he could fain rise for her, or any woman come to that. They say…” Finally Que’Devit’s eyes found enough resolve to remain on Nephril’s, unwaveringly. “They say she was … that she was, well, displaced by another, by…”

  “By whom, in the name of the Certain Power?”

  Que’Devit cringed at first, but eventually quietly stammered, “By … by his … by his Aide!”

  Nephril staggered back a pace or two, his eyes wider than should have been possible, and could only find that Aide’s name on his disbelieving lips. “Laixac! Laixac? But…” His lips quite simply failed him as the thought soured his mouth. It was his turn to look down upon the fortified crowd as Que’Devit now stared at his profile.

  Que’Devit shook himself free of the thought. “Stuff and nonsense of course. Needn’t be said for it’s such plain rot, but that’s what’s making the rounds.”

  Nephril’s mind only slowly came free of the shock to find clear thought. He half watched the Dicans milling about the narrow streets that hemmed in the Great Hall but was really only looking within, finally seeing some sense to it. He knew from his own witness how much the queen had meant to King Namweed, how shattered he’d been at her untimely passing, and how it had been that very pain that had driven him … driven him to … well, to his distraction.

  Although all Dicans knew in their very hearts that their realm was declining, the king’s passing had driven it home in no uncertain terms. Had he had issue, had the line but rolled forward as it had always done, then his people would have remained happily buried in their own perpetual denial.

  As it was, his death had spoken the unpalatable truth out loud, out very loud. They had suddenly become an orphaned state, had passed from royal realm with sovereign certainty to an unknown and uncertain future. Uncertain indeed! Uncertain! A future without a figurehead, without royal order and, now so clearly laid out before them, without sustenance of a vigorous Certain Power. The rumourmongers, the wagging tongues, the doomsayers, they’d all been searching for a scapegoat and King Namweed had delivered himself up for certain sacrifice.

  Lord Que’Devit’s voice only slowly impinged. “Those who passed through the hall this morning had either not yet heard the tittle-tattle or still retained some rare common-sense. It seems that most now believe they’ll come away from paying their respects with some curse or other, and so they stay away. Times have become so uncertain nowadays that even those who don’t for a minute believe it still don’t dare tempt fate.”

  Nephril wondered what it all boded for the morrow’s events. There was still much to be done, many people to see before they could conduct the cortege to the Kings’ Mausoleum. He hoped those on which the whole thing hung could still be called upon, that enough could be woven together to see the king off. Even if the streets weren’t to be as thronged as in ancient times, then let there be enough at least of Leiyatel’s gaze to ensure they arrive without mishap at the king’s final stand.

  A thought struck Nephril. “Mine Lord?”

  “Yes?” Que’Devit answered, with a somewhat brighter face.

  “Is Laixac still about the place?”

  The answer placed him much removed from the Royal Court, from anywhere in the northern precincts in fact. Que’Devit reported possible sightings suggesting he’d retreated to his nefarious haunts in the Upper Reaches, that he had, to all intents and purposes, gone to higher ground.

  “Gone feral again?” Nephril half asked but got no answer. “Probably spying from the Star Tower as we speak, eh, Lord Que’Devit? Taking his rodent fill as he stares down upon us.”

  When Nephril sighed and alluded to his long list of things to do, Lord Que’Devit excused himself, bowed very low and smartly strode off along the front of the Great Hall. He soon vanished from sight through an archway into the seclusion of the Outer Courts.

  Nephril felt someone behind him and quickly spun about only to confront an uncertain Phaylan. “Am I alright joining you again, Lord Nephril?”

  There was something about Phaylan that always seemed to bring fresh air to Nephril’s mood; a tinge of Bazarran perhaps, a resurgence of the donor blood long ago used to fashion their kind. He’d chosen well in bringing a young priest for they seemed nearest that virgin stock, least bound by Leiyatel’s weakened embrace. Fresh air, fresh eyes and a fresh mind, what more could he have asked for.

  The young priest indeed proved a boon, tirelessly attending Nephril’s various needs; whether taking notes, carrying ledgers and registers, running errands or simply and unknowingly lifting his spirits. With his help, Dica’s Master of Ceremonies quickly addressed almost everything needed of the occasion. He’d confirmed the time-honoured route, the collegial choir’s preparedness, spent much time conferring with lords and ladies, confirming where in the procession they’d walk, and a whole host of other fastidiously painstaking considerations - bar one.

  He’d not yet sought out the Master of Caskets, not because he’d least worries in that respect but precisely because he’d the most. The need, though, had brought them back to the Great Hall rather later than he’d hoped, not to the king’s now solitary lying-in-state but to a large door set far back behind him.

  It sat in the hall’s rear wall, darkly hooded beneath a heavily tiered balcony. Nephril stopped before an inconspicuous panel set at its side, and at which he closely squinted. After a short while, he prodded something and stood back, his ear cocked.

  Phaylan could faintly hear a strange clanking noise, as though some distant ogre were shaking his chains f
rom deep within a dungeon. The noise quickly became regular, almost rhythmic, its vibrations coming to him through his feet.

  Nephril stood impassively, staring at nothing in particular, oblivious of Phaylan’s perplexed look as they both stood for some minutes, the noise steadily growing. When Phaylan noticed a soft whistling sound rise above the guttural rattling, Nephril shifted his weight, as though preparing for something.

  A loud clang rang out from behind the door which soon began to slide open. The floor, narrowly seen through the widening gap, seemed to bounce slightly. When Phaylan looked more closely, it appeared to have stopped.

  It was the floor to a medium sized room; the walls plain and light and slightly glossy, blank but for metal borders to their component panels. At the centre of the floor, four recessed hooks surrounded a square of the same number of indentations.

  Before Phaylan could ask, Nephril strode in, turned and beckoned him, just as the door silently began to slide to. Phaylan nimbly leapt in and was immediately shocked by the utter silence. It made the Great Hall’s oppressive quiet seem almost cacophonous. Then, at the soft thud of the closing door, the walls softly glowed blue.

  Once more the ogre began thrashing his chains, smashing the stifling silence, but more loudly now and so much nearer. It quickly settled into its previous rhythm, continuing to beat out its monotonous tune as Phaylan’s stomach went light. In the minutes that passed, Nephril’s face began to cloud until, as Phaylan suddenly felt heavier, it finally hardened and the door once more slid back.

  Phaylan’s eyes quickly grew as wide as the large chamber now revealed before them, but his pupils as quickly shrank to pinpricks against the bright glare it held. They blurred the soft and indistinct silhouettes of figures slowly moving about within its metallic-tasting air, air somehow hung with a low and monotonous hum. It was only when he squinted hard that he began to see exactly what it held, although his mind took far longer to make sense of it.

  Immediately before him was a wide aisle bordered by extremely large shelves, table-sized and very deep, on which indescribable objects rested. No two were the same, nor even of the same family, an exhaustive collection of all manner of shapes. They seemed to be made of just about every material imaginable, all drawn together into strange amalgams. When Phaylan looked closer, it was clear they weren’t just stored there but were all linked together with wires and pipes. When he looked through their tangled mass, though, he was amazed to see yet more such parallel aisles stretching away to either side.

  Their own aisle ended some twenty yards away, beneath a massive dome. Directly below its centre stood a large plinth, around which a dozen or so men quietly jostled. As Phaylan and Nephril drew nearer, one of them broke away and strode forward to meet Nephril, his hand outstretched.

  “Welcome, Lord Nephril, welcome once more. How relieved I am to see you here at last.” He vigorously shook Nephril’s outstretched hand and began accosting him with a whole litany of concerns.

  The Master of Caskets, for that’s who it was, had been so engrossed that Phaylan was simply overlooked, left free to wander until finding himself near the body of men around the plinth. They were busy with tubes and wires seemingly crammed into various cavities within the plinth, or were carefully removing or replacing small metal or glass boxes, each man solicitously and studiously overlooked by another.

  Whatever they were doing, it was all conducted in complete silence, as though a long practiced ritual, until they seemed to have finished, and stepped back a pace as one. They each in turn nodded whereupon the cavities vanished behind mysteriously appearing panels.

  Phaylan jumped when one of the men sharply announced, “We have reinstatement, Honoured Master.”

  “Without leaks I hope?” The Master of Caskets barked back.

  “It would seem so, sir,” an answer that gained immediate approval and complete attention, temporarily demoting Nephril’s importance.

  “Right, let’s try again. Bring it down.”

  Nothing seemed to happen, other than every face turning to look up at the centre of the dome, and so Phaylan thought it prudent to do the same. All he could see, though, was what appeared to be a small triangular hole at its centre. It was, however, from that very place that his next surprise came.

  The hole soon appeared to close but Phaylan quickly realised it was actually something being lowered through it. Ever so slowly, a triangular, metal based glass box began to appear. With only the distant sound of escaping air, it grew like a stalactite, dropping imperceptibly lower and lower.

  Phaylan at first took it to be only small, but the distance belied its true scale. When it eventually came to just above the plinth’s top, he realised how big it really was. The two, the plinth and box, both came together followed by a rapid series of snapping noises, before the room once more fell silent.

  Everybody turned to the Master of Caskets, already looking down at a large dial. The Master began solemnly nodding before carefully drawing back a lever. All eyes immediately shot back to the box.

  What had been clear air within soon clouded, before the inner faces of the glass became spotted by tiny droplets. They in their turn slowly faded, following an almighty exhalation, a steady stream of ticking noises close on its heels.

  One of the men lightly tapped the box with a small hammer and listened astutely to its singular note. He soon turned to the Master of Caskets and smiled.

  To Nephril’s patent relief, the Master of Caskets breathed a long sigh of his own before affirming, “All is well at last. Once again - and I suppose for the last time - a sovereign lord can now be carried in pomp to his final stand.”

  21 The King’s Departure

  Quite unusually, the Outer Courts and their neighbouring warren of ways had been busy from well before sunrise. The Great Hall, rearing high above its place on the Courts’ outer wall, still remained deathly quiet, and no longer held the king’s remains. The wide sweep of steps before the hall were also empty, but for the occasional courtier’s hurried use to gain access to the processional route below.

  The Quiristers’ Court reverberated to its incessant, trapped choral practice, the Court of the Barristers mindfully murmured confidential conversations, the Vintners’ echoed its barely held jubilation whilst the Noble Court assuredly preened its own peculiar but reserved excitement. The only court still empty, its members at duties elsewhere, was the Guards’ Keep, leaving but Nephril’s own to hold any truly pertinent activity.

  Nephril had hardly slept the previous night, having only fitfully snatched an hour or two, and so had been busy well before all others. He and Phaylan had stayed in his own court’s cloistered rooms, until streams of officials had steadily begun passing in and out about the day’s errands. From there he’d issued commands and decided choices, berated and praised, been stern or considerate as events dictated.

  Nephril’s own court, and his seat of authority, stood directly above the Master of Caskets’ workshops, with its own close access. The Master and his men had been toiling away from almost as early as Nephril, and had carefully removed the king - under the Preserving Master’s oversight of course - to their own prescribed care. The king had soon been absorbed into their long ordained stricture, the Master’s methods needing no guidance by man for they were nature’s own.

  Only as morning light began to strike the silver-oak panels of Nephril’s hall did processional concerns really start to become pressing. He’d earlier sent Phaylan with a message that had proven long in reply, and so his return had reminded Nephril of overdue duties. Excusing himself from his current petitioner, Nephril made his way down to the Master’s subterranean workshops, Phaylan tagging along like an ever faithful spaniel.

  The plinth now hugely bore up the immense weight of the triangular glass case, the two inextricably joined. Within its crystal clear enclosure, King Namweed now stood proudly staring out.

  Although Phaylan abruptly stopped, stunned and staring himself, he couldn’t not hear Lord Nephril’s a
nguished cry. “No! Who in their right mind set him so?” Nephril shot the Master of Caskets an acid look. “In the name of the Certain Power, why has he been posed thus? Who be dolt enough to impugn His Majesty’s reputation so, eh, and with such brazen affront?”

  The Master and his staff looked puzzled, staring firstly at Nephril and then up at the king. The Master hesitated before declaring, “I don’t understand, my Lord. Is there something amiss?” He quickly looked back at Nephril, but when he saw how alarmed he was - distaste dripping from his eyes - he immediately stared back at the king. He stepped away a few paces, tilting his head this way and that.

  By now Nephril was at his side and seething. “What instructions hast thou followed in determining his stance so, eh, respected Master?” and venom dripped from the acerbic edge of his words.

  The Master looked down at the table beside him and limply lifted an official paper. He sluggishly scanned through it, but when content it was all in order, offered it up to Nephril.

  It was a Royal Imperative, duly signed and sealed, and in some obsessive detail it had to be said, laid out exactly how the king wished himself presented. Not only were his commands detailed but also, helpfully, his reasoning behind them.

  After having read what turned out to be quite a long document, Nephril unguardedly reflected, “The idiot was far madder than I thought,” which caused an awkward ripple of embarrassment through the Master’s men.

  Nephril ignored it and shook the paper as he held it in his outstretched arm, to compare words with results. “My head,” he read aloud, “must be tilted ever so slightly to one side, as though I am considering a subject’s petition, with my lips beginning to pout a favourable reply.”

  They all looked up at the king’s head, mumbled approval rippling amongst the Master’s men.

  Nephril continued, “My right arm must be raised and cranked in gesture of accepting supplication, by kiss upon hand, for I wish to be remembered as benevolent within my royal authority, that I readily gave to those who vouchsafed their respect and loyalty.”