Of Weft and Weave (Dica Series Book 2)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Behind him, Melkin heard Lord Nephril’s ecstatic groan before the thud of his spent body’s fall. At the far end of the passage, the slightest of the three men also moaned and crumpled to the ground, leaving the passage filled with a startled voice. “Breadgrinder? What in t’name o’ Grunstaan’s going on here?”

  41 Beyond the Call of Duty

  “What in t’world’s going on?” The Warden’s question seemed, to Breadgrinder at least, wholly inappropriate. Strictly speaking it wasn’t in the world at all. The Warden’s ears had plainly become deaf for he just kept repeating the same old question. Although Breadgrinder had each time answered, “I don’t for the life of me know,” he wished he’d actually said, “But, there are people at the other end.”

  However, by now he’d already misplaced his voice, and so when the Warden finally lost his own, the resulting silence starkly revealed yet others, ones drifting to them from the passageway. What they’d said, though, made no sense at all for they obviously spoke in some alien tongue.

  It only made Breadgrinder conjure demons, or maybe celestial beings, until a stray word struck his ear. It was an old word, likely a name and one long since fallen to disuse, but it had enough currency to rise above all others, and it was the word Nouwelm.

  Two figures now cautiously crept from the passage, outlandishly dressed yes, but otherwise worldly, man and woman, and both clearly flesh and blood. The man was - slack was probably the best description, slack but gainly. The woman, although close-checked by her tunic, was definitely full, plainly in her thridgaer with full, flowing hair provocatively falling about her shoulders.

  It was the man’s voice that Breadgrinder had heard, not exactly authoritative but clearly confident. It was a voice that seemed strangely familiar, if he could but place it. Again, the word Nouwelm, but with a sense of uncertainty, or perhaps of unsure greeting. If he’d not been mistaken, he was sure the woman had then said that very same word – Greetings.

  The unreal events of the past few hours, culminating in the world’s very edge fast dissolving before their eyes, had stretched even Breadgrinder’s normally sanguine acceptance. From Dialwatcher’s first appearance at the Exchange that morning, Breadgrinder felt he’d slipped inexorably into a dream, one tinged by nightmare. It was as though the skinny blighter had had a malady, an infectious one, and one Breadgrinder himself was only now taking a fever from.

  It was the only explanation he could find for how readily he’d been drawn into leading Dialwatcher through the empty night-time streets. They’d silently slid beneath rarely used blue-tinged lights, confident they’d disturb no one, that they’d set neither intrigue nor suspicion, but they’d plainly been wrong.

  The Warden’s challenge had been surprisingly equitable, given the unprecedented hour. His most daunting demand, though, was to know what they were doing there, to which Breadgrinder really wished he’d had an answer. The same direct challenge of Dialwatcher had only brought the kind of torrent of words you’d expect to make matters worse.

  Dialwatcher had babbled on almost incoherently about Grunstaan needing this or demanding that. How he’d done it Breadgrinder couldn’t imagine, but the Warden soon seemed to accept that what they were doing was to the good.

  Dialwatcher had even brought but gentle reprimand. “Suppose Breadgrinder were a good choice o’ guide, but thee should ‘ave still come to us first.”

  The present abruptly dragged Breadgrinder back. From behind the man and woman, a seeming army of robed youths began to gush from the passage, yet another man and woman soon appearing behind, both as stout-framed as himself.

  For some reason Breadgrinder’s eyes were caught by firelight flickering from the glass-like walls of the new passage. It made him wonder if their alien visitors had indeed come from the embers of the setting sun, been given form by its light and passage by its heat? Were they heralds of some celestial communion, messengers from the world’s nurturing bosom, and brought to them by leave of its carrying winds?

  Dialwatcher’s fervent ramblings had, to Breadgrinder’s own unschooled ears, almost said as much. He may have understood precious little, but it had left him in no doubt that it had been but Grunstaan’s own wish, and that that had been enough. Why else would the Warden now be trying his damnedest to make himself understood?

  He was making sterling efforts but it appeared to be going nowhere, and doing little to dissolve the confused looks on both sides. The Warden was starting to repeat himself, but at far greater volume, when a voice they all seemed to understand well enough broke between them. It immediately brought all eyes to the mouth of the passageway.

  Breadgrinder was amazed to see yet another figure there, a young man this time, one of proud stature but with eyes that spoke of vast knowing, and that seemed to blaze from across innumerable centuries. “I am Lord Nephril,” the young fellow boomed. “Master of Ceremonies to the many kings of Dica, bringer of unction to a fraught Grunstaan, appeaser of unseen ills. I am writ large from ancient procedure, made manifest by a coming of age, summoned benevolence for to make full what be virgin still.”

  He paused whilst he let his deep and wide eyes bear into them each in turn. Finally, they rested on the shaken, wan and still supine figure of Dialwatcher, overlooked until now.

  Lying on the ground, to where he’d seemingly fallen an age ago, Dialwatcher looked like a wraith. He shook slightly and dribbled from pale lips set amidst a face of paper-white skin. He looked stunned and clearly found difficulty locating Nephril’s voice until it fell at his twitching feet. As Nephril bent and offered his hand, he gently said, “Come, Master Dialwatcher, poor substitute for a limb, take mine own and rise thee.”

  As though lightning had passed between them, when Dialwatcher took Nephril’s outstretched arm, he jolted. Colour soon suffused his face and his seemingly boneless limbs again began to hold him strongly as he was brought to a stand. Dialwatcher gazed far beyond Nephril, to some other much greater vision, but when Nephril smiled, Dialwatcher began to cry.

  To Breadgrinder it all seemed but a continuation of his dream. He was frozen and only intent on sight and sound, on witnessing the impossible played out before him.

  Everything then seemed to move on apace. This strange Lord Nephril appeared to have a miraculous power to command all at will. With a few well-chosen words he quickly had the Warden fair eating from his hand, Dialwatcher only bolstering the effect with his own echoing voice.

  Before Breadgrinder knew it, they were marching back through the warren of ways to the east, towards Nubradcar. He noticed many a face at window and gate, dimly in the shadowy depths, all startled and amazed at the sight of them, all drawn from their routine by the uniquely unexpected.

  Their party soon passed by the Exchange but without pause, then on down Heggra Way, across Ort-geard and on to Blaecgang, that ran straight and true to Nubradcar. All the time, Lord Nephril carried on his discourse with the Warden, but always just out of earshot.

  What they discussed Breadgrinder couldn’t imagine, but reckoned it was all to do with Grunstaan. He would like to have asked Dialwatcher but the stick of a man had insisted on keeping close to the Warden’s heels, intent only on Lord Nephril.

  The entrance to Nubradcar lay at the very end of Blaecgang. Just before its gate, and on either side of the road, lay two small grassed areas. Within one was a well-pump and the other a latrine, both screened by neat hedges.

  The Warden turned them onto the well side and promptly bowed low to Lord Nephril, a most odd thing in itself, before turning sharply about. As he strode past Breadgrinder, the Warden reached out an arm and unceremoniously swept him along.

  Before Breadgrinder could say a thing the Warden swamped him with instructions. “Get ‘em plenty o’ food, d’ya hear? Fruit, cooked meats, stuff like that, ya know, pies and the like, owt that’ll need no cooking.” Breadgrinder couldn’t get a word in edgewise. “Oh aye, an’ some juice, an’ milk, an’ see if thee can get some o’ them fruit biscuits, ya know, t’
ones Nangaer Oxblower makes.”

  They were a long way from Nubradcar when Breadgrinder finally managed to interrupt, his head already stuffed with inventory. “But, Warden, where am I going to get it all from? And at this time o’ night.”

  Do I ‘ave to do all t’thinking for thee, eh, well? ‘Ave I? Surely I can trust thee to sort it out for theesen. Tha knows who’s who, and where they is. I certainly don’t.”

  Breadgrinder found it hard to argue, but by the time he’d thought it through the Warden had already taken leave and was striding away into the shadows. “Well,” Breadgrinder said to himself, “there goes me chance o’ finding out what the blazes is going on.”

  He soon realised he’d have to rouse people, quite a few in fact, and wondered how on earth he was going to go about it. There were no duties or procedures to invoke for such a thing, no obvious recourse. In fact, it was that very thought that filled his mind with dread as he made for the nearest place that met with some of his needs.

  Each and every house or farm Breadgrinder visited was a trial in itself, and devoured much time in drawing people from their habits or duties, or at this hour mostly from their beds. He quickly learned to invoke the Warden’s name, but even then there was a lot of convincing to be done.

  In some cases he’d even failed to draw anyone to their door, despite the noise he’d made, and so was forced to rethink his plans. All in all, it was many dark hours later when he once again came onto Blaecgang and drew near the well.

  Much of the grass had largely vanished beneath a couple of odd-looking structures, seemingly wrought of fabric. There were also piles of wares, and some of the bearers Breadgrinder had spent all night badgering into action.

  Some of the strangers sat about eagerly tucking into pies or cakes, or greedily quaffing from flagons. It was mainly the young ones, and the man and woman who looked akin. However, the two he’d first met now didn’t seem to be there, nor was Lord Nephril or, disappointingly, Dialwatcher. “Still no chance o’ finding out what the heck’s going on then.”

  Without his really noticing it, all his enlisted bearers had by now beaten a hasty retreat, leaving him the strangers’ only host. The woman awkwardly spoke to him, reassuringly it seemed to Breadgrinder, despite his understanding nothing. When she spoke again, though, and nodded her head in token bow, some of her words somehow seemed to find purchase.

  He was sure she’d said greetings followed by I am, but the rest still eluded him. He decided it was probably her name and so replied, “Greetings. I’m Master Exchanger Breadgrinder,” and he too nodded.

  She smiled even more broadly when she said, “Exchanger,” but he grinned back, prodding his chest.

  “Breadgrinder.”

  She saw her error and laughed before pointing at her own chest and saying, “Penolith.”

  Eventually he was encouraged to sit with them, by Penolith’s side and opposite the man who looked like her. Presently, Breadgrinder learnt that he was called Pettar and that he and Penolith were indeed brother and sister, and from somewhere they called Galgaverre.

  When it became obvious Breadgrinder didn’t know the place, Pettar pointed at the Southern Mantle and said something Breadgrinder took to mean beyond. Yes, he thought, they must really be celestial beings to have come from beyond the Mantle.

  When he only stared at them in shocked wonder, Pettar looked uncertain, and again pointed at the Mantle. This time, though, when he said the word beyond, he followed it with Gray Mountains, which meant nothing at all to Breadgrinder.

  Slowly, they came to rest more easily in each other’s company and by it began to hear more familiarity through their accents and dialects. In fact, Breadgrinder became so confident he actually managed to move the halting conversation on to what he most wanted to know.

  “Dialwatcher? Where?” He followed it with hunched shoulders and open arms, which he swept questioningly about.

  It seemed to work for Penolith pointed but then spoke the most shocking of answers. “Lord Nephril and Dialwatcher … to Grunstaan … with greetings.”

  As they’d no more idea than Breadgrinder why Nephril had been so keen to visit Grunstaan, and had seen how plainly surprised Breadgrinder was, Pettar and Penolith showed no inclination to pursue the matter. Conversation therefore fell to an embarrassing silence. Just as Breadgrinder thought he’d found something anodyne to fill the void, to his great relief a familiar figure strode towards them.

  Before Breadgrinder could say a thing Trencherbone waved an uncertain greeting to the strangers, briefly smiled at Breadgrinder, but then with as much dignity as possible, dragged him away.

  “Watch it!” Trencherbone said as soon as they were out of earshot but whilst pleasantly smiling at Pettar and Penolith.

  He turned slightly away from them and whispered, “Don’t be took in, Bread’. They follow more than thee’d reckon. Just tek care what thee says, tha hears,” at which he again nodded disarmingly towards brother and sister.

  “What’s goin’ on, Trenchy, eh? Where’s they from, an’ what’re they doin’ ‘ere, and why’re they in Nubradcar?”

  “‘Aven’t the foggiest and don’t care. Nowt to do wi’ me. Definitely beyond me duties.” He looked shaken but defensive.

  Trencherbone was quite obviously in that same place they all occasionally went to, at those rare times when something goes amiss. He’d done his duty and that was enough, let others sort things out.

  Somehow, though, there seemed more to it than that, and so Breadgrinder asked, “What you doing ‘ere at this hour anyway?”

  It was as though he’d stuck him like a pig, for he almost squealed, “Wasn’t my doing!” loud enough to draw inquisitive looks from the strangers.

  Once Breadgrinder had calmed him a little, he slowly learnt what Trencherbone had found so disturbing. The Warden, it appeared, had told him, quite outside his duties, to escort two of them to the library.

  “The library?” Breadgrinder marvelled. “Why the library?” but it was no good, Trencherbone wouldn’t be drawn and instead sat in a sulk, the second time today that Breadgrinder had come across that terrifying reaction.

  Beneath Trencherbone’s protective withdrawal a continual thorn seemed to scratch, one that kept him furtively glancing up at Breadgrinder, as though steeling himself to speak. Eventually he whispered, “Kept asking me for paper … an’ a pen! Just like that! What’s they goin’ ‘o want wi’ pen n’ paper?”

  His real confession soon became apparent, that he’d finally had to accede to bringing them some of the library’s finest.

  “Should be alright,” Breadgrinder offered, without any real conviction. “Warden should’ve told thee if they’d to ‘ave stuff or not. It’s not your fault he didn’t.”

  Trencherbone wasn’t convinced and so became even more sullen.

  “Why you, though?” Breadgrinder asked.

  “‘Cos it’s me duty to keep t’place stocked an’ tidy.”

  “Oh. Never knew that.”

  “Why should thee? Nowt to do wi’ yer own duties, now is it?”

  “Suppose not,” Breadgrinder allowed, but then turned to wave goodnight to the strangers.

  They seemed to be retiring to their strange fabric structures where he supposed they intended sleeping, but the idea just wouldn’t take hold in his mind. Instead, he turned to his own prospects and wondered what he ought to do next.

  “Did t’Warden say what thee’s duties were to be, ya know, tonight?” he asked Trencherbone, who now looked even more unhappy, but oddly more confident.

  “Wait on t’Warden’s further orders, ‘ere.” he said, jabbing his finger towards the ground at their feet.

  So, it seemed only right that the small grassed area and its secluded well settled back once more into its age-long habit of nighttime silence. It may have been a little more crowded than usual, but it patiently awaited the dawning of a very new day.

  42 Light at the End of the Tunnel

  When she opened her eyes, all
Penolith could see were flecks of light shimmering through the shelter’s fabric. She couldn’t at first place what had awoken her, but the activity without soon swept aside any lingering dreams and gave her an answer. Although quite low and restrained, she could hear urgency in Nephril’s voice. He was commanding the priests to break camp, a thought that quickly stung her fully awake.

  The morning light hurt her eyes when she soon came to stand at the shelter’s entrance. Although she sought out Nephril, the face she found first was Dialwatcher’s, and it struck her as odd. He looked smug but slightly worried, something she couldn’t quite fathom.

  The shelter was already quickly disappearing about her when, from the corner of her eye, she noticed Breadgrinder and Trencherbone draw near. They seemed just as groggy as she, but Nephril soon shook Trencherbone fully awake.

  It hadn’t quite been a command, but it certainly wasn’t a polite request. Trencherbone had been summarily despatched to summon Steward Melkin and Lady Lambsplitter from the library, where it appeared they’d spent the night.

  It was only when Trencherbone was on his way that Nephril acknowledged Penolith, but only with a nod. Before she could say anything, though, she realised she’d not yet seen Pettar. As she searched him out, she overheard Nephril conferring with Dialwatcher.

  “Be thee sure thou hast all in hand, eh, ring-shod limb to be?”

  “I ‘ave, certainly ‘ave. It’s a lot to remember, that’s for sure, but I’ve made notes along t’way.” Dialwatcher patted his jerkin pocket, from which arose the crackle of paper.

  There was something about Lord Nephril that made Penolith reticent, a suggestion of furtiveness perhaps. It was enough to keep her out of his way, still looking for Pettar who she soon found at the entrance to Nubradcar.