The Plains of Kallanash

by Pauline M. Ross

  “I should like to know…” Dethin began, and then stopped. Danzor signed him to continue. “I wondered why it was, if you knew nothing of matters beyond the border, that you chose to make such preparations?”

  “Oh, it was no one thing,” Danzor said, shaking his head a little. “When they first came, you know, bearing the Word of the Gods, we thought it a good thing. Not the religion itself, but as they converted one Petty Kingdom after another, they brought stability to the plains. And decent roads, sanitation, powerful medicines, many advances. Even when they had enough power to come to the Ring – Kashinor, as it was – their changes were sensible. A unified calendar. Crop rotation. Breeding better domestic animals. The sky ships. No one could object to that, and they left the scholars alone, which was all we wanted. For a long time, Kashinor went on much as it had done for centuries.

  “But gradually, they began to interfere with us. In those days, the scholars’ hall was self-contained and we had autonomy. First they took the pupils away from us to live within the confines of the Great Temple, so that they might learn the Word of the Gods before everything else. Then it was the investigations – too dangerous, all those explosions. Then the pupils’ library. They built on the gardens, put pavilions along the lake and more offices near the sky ship way. Then our research library went – moved to a much smaller building. And they began to check up on us, sitting in on lectures and so on. Well, anyone can do that, but it felt – oppressive, somehow. Sometimes they would say to us – this scholar’s teaching conflicts with the Word of the Gods.”

  “So when did you set up this Secret Council?” Tanist asked.

  “More than fifty years ago, now,” Danzor answered. “The first Secret Council realised that the Slaves were so endemic that removing them would be like removing the bones from a fish – the flesh would simply fall to pieces. In simpler terms, we would face a return to the Petty Kingdoms and a state of perpetual war in very short order. So we began to plan.”

  “What exactly do you propose?” Tanist asked.

  “A Council,” Danzor said, “with representatives from the Karningholders, the scholars, the master crafters and the most important merchant groups. We have half a dozen alternative arrangements to choose between, but it needs to be settled quickly. If there is no one clearly in power, there will be a struggle to take control and that is what we wish to avoid. We inherit a peaceful, orderly state of affairs, and none of us would wish to squander that legacy, I am sure.”

  “How was the Ring managed before the Slaves came?” Dethin asked. “It wasn’t part of the Petty Kingdoms, was it?”

  “That’s a good question,” replied the woman. “Outside Kashinor there were many different forms of government tried at different times, none that lasted long. They were not all Kingdoms, even! But Kashinor was always independent. Some parts were sponsored by one or other of the Kingdoms – the centres of art or music. Some, like the scholars’ hall and the infirmary, were autonomous, and people paid to use them. The library – I think all the Kingdoms contributed there. But there was never a single body in charge.”

  “That wouldn’t work now!” Danzor said. “The Karningplain has been run as a single realm for two hundred years now, we can’t go back to how things were. We just need – a lighter touch, that’s all.”

  ~~~

  “You’re very quiet,” Mia said to Hurst, as they ate their supper with Dethin in the big kitchen. There was something of a festival atmosphere now that the tower was safely in warrior hands, and a certain amount of celebration was going on. Hurst, however, sat wreathed in gloomy silence, chewing his food without comment and staring into space, and the three of them were isolated at one end of the long table.

  “What? Oh, well… it’s been a strange couple of days. I was all wound up for a fight and that didn’t happen, and what did happen was – too weird for words. The keelarim, and those magic stick men yesterday, and the Silent Guards and the Nine today. It’s a bit much to take in. I feel – stretched tight, somehow. Jumpy.”

  “I know what you need,” Dethin said, with a quick lift of one eyebrow towards Mia. “An early night.”

  “Actually, that would help,” he said, with a quick smile, and reached across the table to take Mia’s hand. “But aren’t you upset?” he said to her. “You really believed in the Nine, and now…”

  She ought to be upset, she realised that. All her life, she’d kept to the Word of the Gods, memorised all the chants, learnt the interests of each of the Nine, taken pleasure in the details. Yet it was all artificial, just some invented nonsense to convince a gullible population.

  “I think they meant well,” she said slowly. “And there’s still comfort in the rituals – the chanting, the incense, the communion. It wasn’t such a surprise, after all. I knew it wasn’t what I thought back at Third Section, when I talked to Dondro. He gave it away then. The ideas were good, it just got corrupted along the way. So I’m not upset, not really. Although it has been a bizarre couple of days. You’re right, bed would be good.”

  “I’ll take the first watch tonight,” Dethin said. “That’ll give you two some time together.”

  “No. No, I’d rather it were all three of us, like it was at Third Section,” Hurst said. “It would be really good to have a normal night for once. What?” he said, as they both laughed.

  “Hurst,” Mia said, “you must be the only person who thinks our arrangement is normal.”

  “Pfft. It’s normal for us, isn’t it?”

  And it was, she thought, as she lay contentedly in Hurst’s arms afterwards, listening to his breathing gradually slow. Not until she was sure he was asleep did she turn to Dethin, to find him still wide awake, waiting for her. He lifted one arm to allow her to curl up beside him.

  “Are you tired?” he murmured. “You’ve had a difficult couple of days, too. We can just go to sleep if you’d rather.”

  “Don’t you want to?”

  A low rumble of laughter. “I’m a man, I always want to. But I don’t need to. You never have to do anything you don’t want to, Mia.” It was her turn to chuckle. “I know, I know, I see the irony. I forced you to sleep with me, while self-righteously insisting I would never do such a thing. But I’m not that man any more. I’d rather not have you at all than take you unwillingly, and when you come to me of your own choice – it’s incomparably better.”

  “For me too,” she said, wrapping a leg around one of his, and snuggling closer.

  “Will you be angry if I tell you that I love you?” he murmured, nuzzling her ear.

  “Angry? Oh, I hurled abuse at you for that once, didn’t I? I hurled a lot of abuse at you. But I’ve changed too.”

  She turned her face to his, and they began to kiss.

  Later, Mia allowed her mind to open to his so that she could feel the fire of his love, smiling as she wrapped it around herself like a warm blanket.

  52: Tournament (Hurst)

  Hurst woke early, wishing once again that the glowing walls could be covered up or muted in some way. It was probably still dark outside, but the room was bright and he had woken in a rush, convinced that he was late. Dethin had gone, but Mia was fast asleep, so he crept out of the room and dressed in the corridor. A pair of warriors on watch duty eyed him surreptitiously, but said nothing.

  The kitchen was already humming, filled with the smell of newly-baked bread and fried meat. Tenya had taken charge of the domestic arrangements and organised rotas, and Hurst recognised two of the old women from the top of the tower beating eggs and chopping fruit. At least they weren’t crying anymore. He wondered what in the world they were to do with them. They had been at the tower for years, whisked away from home and family, and then locked up to serve the Nine and their Guards. The tower preserved them from the ailments of age until the day they simply lay down and died. After an interval, a new woman would arrive, he supposed. That was the way it had always been. Now they were free, yet within hours they were back with the cooking pots. They knew no
other life.

  He found Dethin with the watch in the main hallway.

  “Tanist is getting dressed, but he wants you to go and see Mannigor, if you have a moment.”

  “How is he? Any change?”

  “Go and see for yourself,” Dethin said. “Is Mia awake? I’ll go and see if she needs anything.”

  The long infirmary room was beginning to look like any Skirmisher bunk room, with dishevelled beds, scattered items of clothing and a distinct aroma of unwashed men. At the far end, the air was fresher, as if the windows were open to a summer garden. The kilicranji pots were still wafting their healing air over Mannigor, but without them Hurst would hardly have known him. He was propped up on pillows, and although his head was still swathed in bandages his eyes were open and he smiled when he saw Hurst.

  “Mannigor? By the Gods, but you’re looking better! This is wonderful! How do you feel?”

  “Tired. Weak as a baby. Headache. But not dead yet.”

  Hurst looked questioningly at Gurnallon, one of Mannigor’s two Mentors, who sat nearby. One or other of them had watched over him every moment since his injury.

  “One of their healers performed some kind of procedure on him,” Gurnallon said. “He was able to remove some tiny pieces of broken bone from his head, so it should heal well now. He’s in the right place, apparently. This tower – it makes everyone better. Tanist’s leg will take a while, but everyone else – the minor cuts and bruises are all but gone, and even Trondior’s leg is almost back to normal, and that was a nasty, deep gash.”

  “This place is weird,” Hurst said, but Gurnallon shrugged.

  “Weird in a good way,” he said.

  ~~~

  The expedition Tanist had planned for him was far more to Hurst’s liking than sitting around listening to old men talking. He and Gantor were to go through the tunnels, emerge somewhere close to the tournament arena and spend an hour or so mingling with Skirmishers. The tournament was nearing its end, so the competitions would go on all day, there would be crowds of spectators and Skirmishers alike, and a good chance for them to get in and out undetected.

  “I’ll tell them about the assembly, shall I?” Hurst said.

  “If you like, but the scholars are putting the word around, posting notices everywhere, so they’ll know all about it. But it’s important that they see you, and know that you’re really here and not dead or in shackles somewhere. But don’t stay long! We don’t want to push our luck. Oh, and Hurst – if you don’t want to terrify everyone, the beard will have to go.”

  It took him more than an hour to remove it, and then he hardly recognised himself. He understood the reason for it, since none but the most eccentric went unshaved. Skirmishers took it as a point of principle, for everyone knew that the barbarians were bearded. Still, he had grown accustomed to his new appearance, and as he had gradually acquired the skill to keep it neatly trimmed, like Dethin, he rather liked it. Nonetheless, he knew he couldn’t walk around the Ring wearing a beard, for he would attract suspicion immediately, and now that news of their arrival was out, that could be disastrous. So he shaved. Slowly, methodically and with regret, but gradually the beard disappeared and the familiar face peered out of the mirror at him.

  He and Gantor stared at each other’s newly revealed faces.

  “It feels odd, doesn’t it?” Hurst said, fingering his bare chin.

  “Feels like things are getting back to normal,” Gantor said. “Which they’re not, of course.”

  He was only taking Gantor with him. “He’s the sharpest of you in a tight spot,” Tanist had said. “He can talk his way out of trouble better than you. I’d like to send Trimon, but if he goes, Walst will insist on going too, and that’s too much of a risk.”

  They wore full battle gear, but so close to the tournament arena that would appear normal. They would, however, be the only ones whose scabbards concealed battle swords.

  They went down to the Hall of Light below the tower, and down the northwestern tunnel to the shallow alcove where they knew the door was. Dethin had explained to them how to open the door from each side.

  Beyond the door was darkness. It appeared that the strange glowing stone was only used in the tunnels and tower, and nowhere else. Once their eyes adjusted, they could see a faint outline against the opposite wall, indicating a normal door. Cautiously they felt around and located a long metal bar. A quick pull met no resistance and the door shot wide open. Gantor hastily closed it again and they waited, hearts pounding, in case anyone had spotted them. But all was quiet.

  Opening the door a crack showed brooms and buckets stacked in one corner. Outside, a long, dusty corridor stretched, brightly lit by many candle lamps which burned steadily behind their glass housings. There was no one about.

  “Can you imagine how much all these candles must cost?” Gantor whispered.

  “What are they all for? This is just some administrative building, isn’t it?”

  “If the scholars’ calculations are correct, it’s the Hall of Recording of Transactions and Population Adjustments. Births, deaths and land transfers, basically. One of the very old buildings.”

  “And if they’re not correct, we could be anywhere,” Hurst said cheerfully. “So, which way?” There were doors on both sides of the corridor, all numbered, but no other signs. At both ends of the corridor, other passages could be seen, but with no indication of which would lead them out of the building. “Hmpf. Tanist didn’t think this through, did he?”

  “We’ll go that way,” Gantor said. “The light is brighter down there. Walk confidently, as if we have every right to be here.”

  “We do have every right,” Hurst said indignantly.

  Gantor strode off at speed, and Hurst had to scramble to catch up. They reached the end of the corridor, and were faced with a choice of two directions. Again, there were no helpful signs.

  “This way,” Gantor said, and shot off again.

  Almost immediately, one of the side doors opened, and a woman backed out, pulling a wheeled trolley laden with documents and ledgers. Gantor almost bumped into her. Hurst stopped dead, heart thumping, mouth dry, but Gantor bowed politely.

  “Good afternoon, Aider. Which way to the nearest stairs, if you please?”

  “Oh! I beg your pardon, I didn’t see you…erm, Most Respected,” she said, quickly reading the insignia on his gear. Then she saw Hurst. “Most High,” she murmured, bowing low. “The stairs? That way.” She pointed behind them.

  “Thank you so much,” Gantor said, and whisked off before Hurst could do more than flap his mouth open and closed a couple of times. “Relax,” he murmured. “She was just a worker, doing her job, nothing to worry about.”

  “You relax, I’ll carry on worrying,” Hurst whispered back.

  They turned another corner and there, right in front of them, were two Voices, hooded and gowned, each holding two or three document cases. Hurst froze, horrified.

  “Good afternoon, Most Humble,” Gantor began smoothly. “Which way to the exit, if you please?”

  The Voices exchanged glances. “What are you doing down here?” one said. She sounded puzzled but not yet suspicious.

  “We were looking for the… erm, the water rooms,” Gantor said. Hurst’s heart sank at the stumbling words. Surely they would notice? Surely they would begin to wonder who they were? He began to calculate how quickly they could retreat back to the broom cupboard and escape.

  Astonishingly, the Voices smiled. “You should have gone up the stairs from the entrance hall, Most Respected, not down. And you are still going the wrong way. You need to turn round, and follow this corridor right to the end, then turn left. You will see the stairs ahead of you.”

  “Thank you so much,” Gantor said. “You are most obliging. These passages are very confusing. If you had not happened along I daresay we should have wandered for hours.” And he bowed gracefully, making them both giggle girlishly.

  Gantor turned and strode off again, Hurst bustling in h
is wake like an acolyte. The two women, still giggling, receded into the distance.

  “What was that?” he hissed. “Why did you hesitate?”

  “Nearly said carsi,” Gantor said, eyebrow jinked in amusement. “There you are, there are the stairs.”

  They whisked up them two at a time, and found themselves in a vast domed entrance hall, floored and pillared in glistening marble, with small alcoves set into the wall at regular intervals, where once statues or vases had stood. Now they were all empty, but between them could still be seen the faint traces of frescoes, faded almost to invisibility apart from odd lines picked out in gold. Far above them, the circular dome was painted in unrelieved white, but the intricate plasterwork of leaves and flowers and birds could be clearly seen.

  People were coming and going, but no one gave them more than a cursory glance, just another pair of tournament contenders or trainers conducting some business before making their way to the arena. They turned and followed the stream out through massive doors standing wide open onto broad steps warmed by braziers. They quickly descended to the street, and blended into the crowds moving this way or that along the footpaths.

  “Oof, that wind is bitter,” Hurst said. “Shows how well sheltered from the winter weather we’ve been. So, where are we? Oh, I recognise that corner – the arena’s just down that way.”

  The high-domed Records Hall, its frontage adorned with huge pillars and statuary smoothed by centuries of rain and wind, was surrounded by long unobtrusive buildings of plain brick or stone, the utilitarian offices of this or that administrative department. Once, elegant gardens and orangeries had stood here, but the Slaves had gradually built over them, and now only the family pavilions and houses had modest gardens around them.

  Another turn brought the two close to their destination, and now many of those they passed were Skirmishers, who nodded at them in friendly acknowledgement, although with no sign of recognition. They saw no one they knew. At the arena, they passed under a high arch, gates standing wide open, ignored the noisy stands filled with spectators, and walked down a broad avenue to the centre of the six rings, where the changing rooms and holding pens were. They were heading for the boards showing who was competing, but before they reached it, they saw a familiar face staring open-mouthed at them.