Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Again, they all looked up at the result and nodded their heads, all except Nephril of course who found his eyes beginning to wander skywards.

  Nephril was, unfortunately, starting to see a trend develop. “Further, that my left arm be placed on my left hip, so as to demonstrate how I achieved this great largess within an inviolable power, thus leaving me relaxed and at ease with my conscience.” Nephril groaned very quietly and then equally quietly offered, “Leiyatel, O Leiyatel, why didst thou forsake thy dependants so.”

  By now, the Master and his faithful staff had all perfected most satisfied looks, ones clearly tinged with adopted chagrin and affront.

  Had Storbanther arranged it himself, it couldn’t have been made much worse, Nephril thought as he finally resigned himself to the realm going out on a jest. When he again looked up at the composite result of the king’s wishes, realising it was already far too late, he only laughed - hollowly.

  “Pointless trying to deny the rumourmongers and doomsayers now,” he told himself. “The king’s innocent choices could not hath played more into their hands had he been in league with them all along.” It left Nephril wondering how the king would likely be received now by his soured subjects. He excused himself and hastily left.

  So wrapped up in his own thoughts had he become that he never noticed Baron Stormangal when he got back to his hall. Nephril had already sat down and was flicking through papers before the Baron’s deferential cough made him jump. Nephril didn’t immediately recognise him, given his uncharacteristic finery, and so it was fortunate the Baron spoke out in his typically gruff way.

  “Sorry, mi Lud. Didn’t mean to startle thee. Should’ve made misen known when thee first came in.”

  Nephril couldn’t help but beam at him. “Ah, mine own Baron, and how art thou fairing this fine morning? Well I hope?”

  There was something about the Baron that Nephril always found agreeable; an unusual lack of pretence, a bold and forthright approach, a disarmingly rotund girth. He was also dependable and, a rare thing in a Dican, intrinsically honest. The nearest he could ever come to an untruth, it seemed, was by omission, by becoming mute when an unpalatable truth should be spoken.

  Such a poor dissembler, the good Baron soon gave Nephril yet more to worry about. “Thought ya best know, I’ve managed to cobble together enough bearers … err … well, only just.”

  “The full twenty, and all stout and strong men I trust?”

  “Well…”

  Nephril’s heart grew heavy.

  “Aye … well … certainly twenty, but am not too sure about ‘em being sturdy, like. Strong enough I reckon …well, p’rhaps just about.”

  Nephril felt things were taking a distinct turn for the worse. He thanked the Baron for his efforts, cautioned him to deliver what he’d promised and then sat and thought awhile.

  A bearer’s position had once been highly sought after, had bestowed great honour on the man and his family, but it had now come to the sorry state of enlisting the reluctant. There did seem to be a fast diminishing pool of those who’d any real desire to be associated with this, their very last king.

  He looked up from the jumble of documents on his desk and remembered the Baron, of whom he asked, “Are folk now so afeared they baulk at the honour, or see it as so devalued it be worthless?”

  The Baron shifted his feet uneasily, cleared his throat uncomfortably and spoke the truth, more assuredly as was his wont. “Folk ‘ave become wary o’ curse, Lord Nephril, that an’ sight at the mausoleum.” Stormangal then looked embarrassed, a bit guilty and all too keen to beg his excuses. He lamely blamed the press of preparations and was soon gone, before Nephril could even blink, never mind give him leave.

  It was now mid-morning and fast drawing on to the procession’s allotted time, so Nephril soon yielded once more to its demands. It seemed they’d enough of all that was needed, if only just, and that everything had been timely arranged. He’d passed amongst the various groups involved, confirming plans, resolving small disagreements and generally bolstering confidence whilst trying to firm his own. In the hundreds of such events he’d previously conducted, he’d never once felt as uneasy.

  The Great Hall’s sundial soon cast its shadow ever nearer the noon hour mark, and with it, all activities quickly began coming together. Nephril finally placed himself before the Great Hall’s now empty dais, facing the balcony beneath which the dark door lay hidden. Arranged along both sides of the way from it, every Dican of worth or position now either stood waiting or was straggling to their allotted place.

  To his left and right ran lines each of ten bearers, attired as befitted their role in golden tunics, azure blue blousons and ebony black pantaloons. Each of their black-hosed legs sleekly vanished into stout cork shoes. One line had thick felt mats sewn onto their right shoulders, the other on their left. Before each line, supported on chalk-powdered blocks, lay a long golden shaft.

  Although some hundred mourners in total waited here, yet more lesser-stationed Dicans stood without, arrayed along the head of the steps, ready to join in behind their betters when they were soon to pass by. Until then they all nervously jostled one another, publicly complimenting whilst privately decrying.

  In the hall, an air of expectation had steadily arisen, growing ever more tense, chatter dying away as the fidgeting finally stopped and the noon hour at last arrived.

  From deep within its dungeon lair, the ogre noisily awoke and soon settled to its steady chain-rattling rhythm. It finally brought the mill of Dicans quickly shuffling to their allotted places, stilling them as their faces all turned towards the door.

  They waited with bated breath, but none so as much as Nephril. His own countenance was hidden, though, for his ceremonial robe had an overly long cowl, intimating at the absent face of death who lead pageant that day. In like manner, his black robes were sown with silver in an intricate and ornate depiction of bones, the skeletal presence of death, and his mace was sickle-shaped for the harvesting of souls.

  Of all those gathered so expectantly, it was only Phaylan who stared another way. His only concern had been Nephril, and so for him the cowl’s obfuscation served only to blight his own solicitous purpose.

  The rumbling died away, leaving the air momentarily taut, a few fragments of stilled time in which no one so much as breathed, so much as blinked an eye. It was shattered by a loud hiss that heralded a slit of light down one side of the door. Indistinct, partly hidden, the doorway soon brazenly exposed itself in a flood of light let loose.

  There should now have sung out a chorus of trumpets or a crack of thunder, a strident peel of bells at least, but it was left to the light’s glare to evoke its own opening fanfare. It took a while for their eyes to adjust, but when they did, what they saw quite beggared belief.

  Nephril had already decided that the best form of defence was attack, and so intended to sweep the occasion constantly ahead of reaction. The faster they could get through it all the better, to which end he allowed no further delay before calling out, “Companies away!” and striking the ground three times with his mace. On the third strike the two lines of bearers sprang to action.

  Each separate move had its own ancient call; a cry of adraft before bending as one to grasp the golden shafts, abear as they straightened, adrift as they then turned in line, followed by abeam, advance and abreast. After about and aloft, they solemnly found themselves facing Lord Nephril, Master of Ceremonies, King Namweed safely carried upon their shoulders. Ten men a side, each borne shaft driven through the casket’s plinth - secure in union, stout in support.

  Nephril spared no time. “Well met, once king of men, once proud father of this thy begotten realm. Bravely thou standeth before me, thy guide unto death, and thus will I lead thee through the throng of thy people to thy final stand.”

  Without waiting for dramatic effect, he strode forward and stood between the two leading bearers, looked up into King Namweed’s unwitting face, raised his sickled mace and cried out, “
Let thy realm see thee as thou wilt fore’er stand, and…” he swallowed hard, “…and may they hold thy favoured image eternally close to their hearts.”

  Some tittering had already broken through kerchief-stifled mouths, so before it became infectious, Nephril spun about, again struck the floor three times and put one leg before the other as he cried, “Avant!” He waited a few moments for the bearers to ready themselves before stepping forward as briskly as he felt they could safely bear their king. He hoped Baron Stormangal had had enough time to give them good practice for there were many tight turns to be made, the first at the very outset.

  The rhythm of feet behind him suggested the basics at least had been gleaned, the inner bearers stamping time as the outer stepped on. Nephril led them through the turn and then in a straight line down the Great Hall, the Dican nobles joining in behind.

  As the last of the high-born Dicans emerged into the bright sunshine, the lesser households drew in behind. The processional route avoided the Great Hall’s steps by taking a gently descending path to the west, bringing them in a great arc to their foot. The procession was still filing from the hall as Nephril led the king through the main gates and out into Cheapside.

  That ancient way had always been kept wide and clear, the first of many through which every king had been carried north. It curved away from the Great Hall before shortly bearing west at its junction with Eastern Street, on the very edge of the Lords Demesne.

  There were more people on Cheapside than Nephril had at first feared, but they were all mute and withdrawn, no sign of banners or flags, no sombre attired acquiescence, or dark armbands and caps. Since first seeing the king’s chosen pose, Nephril had fervently hoped for far fewer folk.

  As they sank between the press of buildings, comments and jeers soon rippled in their wake, threatening to overtake them. Nephril kept a fast pace but could plainly hear the bearers’ rhythm suffering, their ill-practiced efforts overcoming them, but the steadily rising ribaldry drove him on regardless.

  The junction with Eastern Street lay but two miles from the Great Hall, reached along Cheapside’s descending curve to where it spilled into Gunnerer Square. The processional route left the square to the west, along the flat of Dryffus Avenue, which Nephril dared hope would be easier going for the bearers.

  That last mile quite clearly pushed them far too near failure, their steps progressively stumbling. Nephril thought to slow his pace but by then the meagre crowds had grown appreciably, and mostly it seemed from the many taverns.

  There were no longer murmured comments, no wafts of subdued laughter and the passing of knowing looks, for by now, fuelled by copious amounts of cheap ale, the place rang with loud jeering and belly-splitting guffaws. From within his cowl, Nephril couldn’t see the mimicked effeminate posturing that came from both drunken adults and sober children alike.

  By the time the procession had issued from the avenue the place fair rocked with laughter, a constant sideshow of acted innuendo played out back and forth between the revellers. Far from being a solemn affair, it had quickly degenerated into farce. It was, therefore, with immense relief that Nephril finally saw the awaiting carriage.

  At the far side of the junction, drawn up at the centre of Eastern Street, a large ebony-black wagon stood behind its team of Wetwold Punches; hooves painted black, fetlocks trimmed of scruffy, long hair, tails and mains ornately plaited with large black orchids. Their coats were oiled and brushed until they fair shone in the sun’s stark light.

  Nephril silently thanked the Certain Power for Grayber Brushboiler, for his unique dedication, for without it his magnificent beasts would have long ago died out, and then where would they have been?

  The king’s bearers, having seen their journey’s end so near, now bore down on Lord Nephril himself, almost at a run. He smartly sidestepped at the rear of the wagon as they pushed on past and heaved themselves up its ramp and onto its bed. The Punches stamped and swayed, leant heavily against the wagon’s erratic lurches, its shaft swinging wildly between them.

  Miraculously without mishap, they got the king clamped in place, Brushboiler settled his charges and the wagon finally stopped swaying. Instead of orderly filing from the back, though, the exhausted bearers simply lay on their backs at the king’s feet, drawing yet more merriment from the crowds. It seemed a lost cause when Nephril noticed how many of the cortege itself were rocking with laughter, and so quickly leapt up beside Brushboiler - now at the reins - and commanded him to drive on.

  The Wetwold Punch was uniquely large and powerful, long ago used to draw heavy tools about the marshlands, its broad feet spreading its great weight on the soft ground. Fortunately, it had a sweet temperament and docile nature, so could be relied upon in tight corners, and didn’t complain when pushed hard to make haste.

  The wagon itself was also large; wrought of stout and heavy timbers, great iron axles across its broad width, four huge wheels, each shod in iron, the fore two pivoted beneath the driver. There were few places that could take its size but Eastern street was one. It carried its huge burden west, beside the boundary wall of the Lords Demesne towards the long, steep, switchback descent into Utter Shevling.

  Whereas the members of the cortege would be making for their own disparate halls, manors and mansions, the king was to make his own solitary progress to Utter Shevling, stolen from his people by death alone. It somehow seemed fitting that on this last occasion the king had swept his own bearers with him in his hasty parting, securing close company against long tradition.

  They sat or lay below the wagon’s side rails and listlessly watched a cloudless blue sky pass by above. Their ears were occasionally assailed by mocking calls or effeminate jibes, but they cared little now that their overbearing burden had at last been put aside.

  It was a while before Brushboiler expertly steered his train down Eastern Street’s switchback descent towards Utter Shevling’s gate, the retarding brake steaming worryingly as dusk lay about them. A wetting fret had been drifting in from the sea all day and Nephril felt relieved that few residents had therefore bothered to line the way.

  “So,” he said to himself as he wrapped his dark robes around himself against the mist’s penetrating cold, “we have at least kept ahead of tidings.” He knew it wouldn’t last, that their few witnesses would even now be raising hue and cry, and so urged Brushboiler on the faster to their night’s refuge.

  Once past the port's walled gate, at the foot of the descent, the following steep rise lifted them towards Utter Shevling’s western bluff. As they climbed it, the town and its harbour reappeared below, spread along the bay’s protective hold.

  It was a long, hard pull up the hill, seemingly an eternity before the wide open entrance to a keep finally lay ahead. Its enclosing sanctuary enticed them on, drew the men no less so than their sweating Punches.

  Once inside and out of the darkening, fret-laden air, Brushboiler set to chocking the wagon, unharnessing his charges and finally casting an obscuring cloth over their staring king. The bearers were soon dismissed to find their lodgings, to recover their strength for the morrow when they would carry their burden its last few miles. They’d been fortunate in being stolen away on the carriage, and so avoiding a cold night’s walk.

  Nephril’s preparations had been thorough. He found his own lodgings here in the Keep to be in order and was therefore looking forward to a wholesome meal, a soft mattress and a cold-denying wrap when a knock at his chamber door disturbed him.

  When he drew it open, he found Brushboiler smiling at him, apologetically. “Theys an vis’tor, mi Lud.”

  “A visitor? Here? Now?”

  “Aye, mi Lud, an woman.” When Brushboiler further revealed that the said woman was in fact a lady, Nephril quickly agreed to her being shown up.

  A cloaked and hooded figure soon swept vestiges of sea fret into his cosy chamber. It was only when the hood was tossed back that he recognised his visitor. “Lady Lambsplitter! What an unexpected but pleasant surprise.
Please, please do make thy good self quite at home, at least as best this meagre abode will allow.”

  She graciously nodded, removed her cloak and sat in the chair Nephril now offered, close by the warmth of the fire.

  She was of middling years, but her dark, full and flowing hair made her look much younger. Shorter than most women, she nevertheless had a shapely if slender frame. Her eyes were slightly slanted, dark and wide and seemingly filled her face, overpowering a dainty nose and narrow mouth. Her moonlight-pale skin elegantly framed starkly black lashes and wild strawberry lips.

  He remembered how she always seemed to fill any room she came into, to dominate and rule it. Even as a youngster she’d not slid between the spaces, not like so many other noble offspring, hadn’t shrunk against the wall in the shadow of her elders. Forthright, vivacious and definitely opinionated, she’d always held a soft spot in Nephril’s heart, one that had matured into respect for her studious outlook.

  Before he could further the usual niceties, she brusquely came straight to the point. “Please forgive me my rather eccentric imposition, Lord Nephril, but I’m here at the behest of the king.” She saw the shock that filled his face. “Ha! Oh, mercy, but I am sorry. I didn’t mean to imply, unlike you from your dress it would seem, that I have habit or power of discourse with the dead. No, I’m simply discharging an obligation I accepted some few years ago, when our sovereign lord was still with us … in body and mind.”

  “An errand of King Namweed?”

  “Indeed. A bequest in a way.” She went on to explain how the king had seen fit to entrust her with a gift, one he’d felt impelled to offer whilst then in full command of his wits.

  She looked knowingly at Nephril for a few moments before reaching into her satchel and producing a small but very tattered old volume.

  When he saw its faded, green leather, something deep within Nephril stirred, but it was only after she’d passed it reverentially into his hands, and he’d carefully opened it to its title page, that his heart truly leapt. There, in his own tender but slightly shaky grasp, lay the original ode, the Aoide tar Degan, scripted and bound so long ago by hand alone. He could smell its age-old persistence, could feel the ink’s embossing, the velum’s oiled veining and the leather’s thick yet soft and yielding touch.