by Roger Taylor
Arwain shook his head as he looked at the city. What the devil was going on there now? Would it prove to be no more than a little local political intriguing? Or would it be some ugly burst of tribal anger threatening to bring riot and terror to the streets and striking the sparks that could lead to war? Or …?
He dismissed his conjectures. He would find out soon enough when he reached the city and he would have to think on his feet then, unclouded by too many prior judgements.
Nonetheless, he was still uneasy. It was true that, of the travellers they had passed on the road, more than usual seemed to be entire families moving wholesale, and many bore a harassed, if not fearful, look about them. But that, though ominous, was not the main cause of his present concern. That came from the conduct of the Mantynnai among his guard.
In the night he had half woken from a fitful sleep to hear the low murmur of voices nearby. Turning, he saw that it was a group sitting around the campfire. They were talking softly but earnestly-agitatedly even-from their gestures. His eyes closing of their own volition, Arwain had made no effort to listen to what they were saying, but words had floated over to him. Strange foreign words, resonant and strong, that in some way made him feel a poor, inadequate creature. The men were the Mantynnai, he realized as he drifted into sleep again. And they were holding this soft, anxious debate in their own language.
Now, in the cold morning, he saw the incident as yet another in the strange chain of events that had started with their chance meeting with Estaan in the crowded Moras street, and gone on to the equally chance encounter with the two riders on the bridge. Seemingly trivial incidents which had left the unshakable Mantynnai uncertain and even defensive.
On an impulse, he signalled the platoon to halt, then motioned Ryllans forward, out of earshot of the others.
'You disturbed me with your debate last night,’ he said, looking intently at him.
Ryllans did not reply immediately. ‘I'm sorry, sir,’ he said flatly after a moment.
'Ryllans, it's not enough,’ Arwain went on, fighting down a twist of anger at this offhand reply. ‘In all the years I've known you, I've never heard you use your own language, even in private when you were alone with your compatriots. And I've never seen you so … uncontrolled … so unsettled. We may be riding into great danger here, as you yourself pointed out. I must know what's happened that could so unman my father's finest guards before I risk entering Whendrak.'
Ryllans met his gaze unflinchingly. He opened his mouth to speak, but Arwain spoke first.
'Elder to younger, Ryllans,’ he said. ‘No deceit, no equivocation.'
Ryllans’ expression softened and he almost smiled. ‘An excellent throw, sir,’ he said. ‘A finely judged lack of opposition to overwhelm me. You're an apt pupil.'
'And none of that either,’ Arwain said sternly. ‘I want the truth. Now!'
Ryllans turned towards the city and shook his head regretfully. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I told you yesterday, it is truly not my story to tell.'
Arwain's eyes narrowed, but Ryllans reached out and took his arms, almost fatherly.
'You're correct,’ he said. ‘We are … disturbed.’ He hesitated. ‘Echoes from our past have reached us. Rolling out of nowhere like thunder out of a cloudless summer sky.’ Pain came into his face but he crushed it. ‘Echoes of a past of guilt and shame for which we try ever to atone. Two great blows came yesterday. Separate. But coming together like hammer and anvil. The evil we … followed…’ He forced the word out. ‘…and thought dead, is perhaps with us again. And those we wronged are come to seek us out.'
'The two riders?’ Arwain exclaimed, his face disbelieving. ‘Two men! How could two men exact retribution from you? Besides, you have the protection of all of Serenstad if you need it, you know that. And whatever you may have done, it's long atoned for by your service here.'
'They have the law of our homeland with them. And right,’ Ryllans said simply. ‘And they will seek an accounting, not retribution. Punishment will lie in the hands of others.'
His voice and his whole manner were oddly fatalistic. Arwain put his hand to his head. ‘I don't understand,’ he said. ‘We have our own law here. And no one can…'
Ryllans’ hand tightened about his arm. ‘I told you this, because our shock had infected you and was likely to mar your judgement,’ he said. ‘What I told you yesterday about Whendrak is still also true.’ He pointed towards the city. ‘There is what must occupy your full attention now.’ There was a hint of anger in his voice. ‘We are not unmanned. We are warriors. We move as an attack demands, when it demands. Where there is no foreknowledge, there can be no forethought. And there is never true foreknowledge. That you should know already. We are your Mantynnai, you have our hearts, spirits, and sword arms unimpaired, here and now. Serve us and Serenstad similarly in Whendrak, Ibris's son. All other things in their due time.'
Though softly spoken, Ryllans’ words impinged on Arwain powerfully. He struggled briefly to find an answer to the Mantynnai's ruthless logic, but could not.
Instead, he laid his hand on the hand that was holding his arm and gripped it powerfully in acceptance, then he signalled the platoon forward.
They approached the city at a leisurely walk and with the Duke's pennant well displayed, if a little reluctant to flutter in the still morning air.
'They're extending their walls,’ Ryllans said as they drew nearer. He pointed.
Arwain followed his finger and saw the cobwebs of scaffolding blurring the line of the walls. ‘They're a neutral city, they can do what they want,’ he said with a slight shrug. ‘But it's not good. The Whendreachi wouldn't spend money like that if they weren't very concerned about something.'
They continued in silence until they came to the first gate. It was closed, and a small crowd of people were gathered in front of it, waiting with surly patience for it to be opened. A large burly man sitting on a rock by the side of the gate looked up as Arwain's platoon arrived. Seeing them, he shook his head wearily and stood up, taking hold of the leading rein of a string of donkeys as he did so.
Muttering to himself, he walked over to a wicket door in the gate and began beating on it with a massive clenched fist.
'Come on!’ he bellowed, in the unmistakable Whendreachi accent. ‘Get off your lazy backsides in there. I've got this lot to deliver, there's two midwives, three joiners, a ruptured mason and god knows how many other folk out here with a living to earn.’ He banged again. There was some laughter among the crowd at his manner, and voices were raised in support of his plaint.
'And there's a fortune-teller who's beginning to look decidedly worried,’ the man went on, rising to the crowd. He winked at Arwain. ‘And now the posh folks are starting to arrive. That's how late it is. Shift yourselves!'
Arwain lifted his hands to his face to disguise his amusement at the man's antics. Ryllans laughed openly.
Suddenly there was an angry rattling of bolts and chains, and the wicket was slammed open noisily. A guard emerged, catching his pike on the lintel and nearly tripping as he struggled to release it. He was quite short and he looked decidedly harassed. He was also unimpressed by the applause that greeted his ungainly arrival.
'All right, all right. Stop all this row,’ he said in a voice full of command and indignation until it cracked into a squeak.
'You get this sodding gate open and we'll stop, Erryk,’ said the burly man. ‘Some of us have got jobs to do, you know. Can't sit around the guard house brazier all day.'
The guard cleared his throat. ‘It's not my job to open the gate,’ he said, hoarsely. ‘The gateman's not turned up. And neither's the Exac.'
There was a spontaneous cheer from the crowd.
'You can't come in without paying your Gate Tax,’ the guard protested.
'Nothing to do with us, Erryk,’ the man continued. ‘If he's not here, that's his problem. If he had an honest job he wouldn't be so reluctant to get up in the morning and do it.’ He flicked a thumb towards
the sun. ‘Gate's supposed to be open at sun-up, not sun-down. That was the law before taxes were even thought of; part of the Ancient Rights, you know that. Come on, stop messing about, get this gate open.'
The crowd, though good-humoured, grew noisier in support of their impromptu leader, shouting and cheering with increasing vigour. Someone started to bang an iron pot, and others soon followed suit.
The guard dithered for a moment, then with an extravagant gesture of resignation, struggled back through the wicket gate. A moment or two later, after further bumping and rattling, the gate began to swing slowly open. Led by the burly man and his donkeys, the small crowd quickly surged forward into the widening opening. It was a rare event for the Gate Exactor to be absent, and not an opportunity to be missed.
'Thanks, Erryk,’ the burly man shouted as he disappeared through the gate. He pointed to his donkeys. ‘First egg that one of these lays today is yours.'
The guard drove the gate's large bolt into its housing with some venom then looked up at the retreating figure. Waving his fist, he shouted something that was too fast and too colloquial for Arwain to understand, though it was patently not complimentary. Without turning, the burly man raised his hand in friendly acknowledgement.
'And stop calling me Erryk,’ the guard managed irritably, as a parting shot, adding futilely, ‘my name's…'
'Oi!'
Arwain had dismounted and was approaching the guard as this cry rang out. He started, thinking it was addressed to him.
'What d'you think you're doing? You can't do that,’ the voice continued, laden with disbelief and righteous indignation.
Arwain identified the speaker. It was a short, stout individual, running, with some difficulty, towards the gate, and waving his arms. He was panting heavily when he eventually arrived.
'Can't do what?’ the guard said crossly.
'Open the gate,’ the stout man spluttered. ‘Open the gate. You can't do that. That's a gateman's job. I'll … I'll have to report this…'
'Report your over-sleeping while you're at it,’ the guard snapped peevishly. The stout man's chin came out defiantly, but the guard was not to be gainsaid. He levelled an angry, prodding, finger at the gateman. ‘I had half the countryside outside here, threatening hell and all, because you couldn't shift out of your bed. What was I supposed to do? I'm responsible directly to the Council for the peace here, you know, not some sodding Guild contractor. If anyone's reporting anything here, it's going to be me.’ He was beginning to warm to his subject. ‘And that lazy Exac's no better. He…'
Arwain cleared his throat loudly. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, stepping forward.
The guard stopped and looked up at him.
'You haven't heard the last of this,’ the gateman said spitefully, slipping this blow into the sudden silence, before scurrying off, grumbling to himself.
The guard snarled something after him then turned back to Arwain. ‘Yes?’ he said, frowning a Whendrak welcome at this newcomer.
With an effort, Arwain forced himself to remember Aaken's instructions.
'I'm Arwain, son of Ibris, Duke of Serenstad,’ he said formally. ‘I have letters patent confirming this, and matters that I need to discuss with the leaders of your city. May I have your permission to enter with my escort?'
The guard's mouth slowly sagged open during this speech and, when it was finished, he began to execute a small, agitated dance, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his pike from hand to hand, and turning his head from side to side as if searching for help or escape.
He accompanied this dance with rhythmic stutterings that eventually merged into fairly coherent speech indicating that he didn't know what to do.
And his officer was late … and … the Exactor … and the gateman … and he shouldn't be doing this duty really … he was supposed to be off sick …
He was rescued by the appearance of another guard; the tardy officer, Arwain judged. With a nod the new arrival dismissed the floundering guard into a nearby sentry post, then turned to Arwain inquiringly, at the same time casting a rapid glance over his escort.
Arwain repeated his introduction and request to enter the city.
This time he was successful.
Shortly afterwards, while the rest of the platoon waited in the forecourt of the Council's Meeting House, Arwain and Ryllans were being escorted by a group of guards into the presence of Whendrak's Maeran, the leader of the city's council, and its most powerful citizen.
As was allowed under the treaty, both men were still armed, but the waiting platoon had been obliged to leave its weapons at the city's gate.
Somewhat to Arwain's surprise, the Maeran was quite a short, inconsequential-looking man who exuded none of the power that Arwain had come to expect from leaders of men. Indeed his first impression was that the man looked more like a successful merchant than a politician.
'Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said affably, indicating two chairs. Arwain noted that they faced the window, while the Maeran sat facing them with his back to it. He began to reconsider his first impression of the man.
He bowed. ‘I have letters patent here for your inspection, Honoured Maeran,’ he said, before he sat down. As he pulled out the documents, a large guard quietly appeared in front of him, his hand extended to receive them.
'They'll not be necessary, Lord Arwain,’ the Maeran said, giving the guard a reassuring nod. ‘I recognize you well enough. And this, if memory serves me right, is Commander Ryllans of the Duke's Mantynnai, seconded to your own personal bodyguard.'
Arwain's surprise showed.
The Maeran smiled. ‘I've been to Serenstad many times, Lord,’ he said. ‘I'm well acquainted with the city, the palace, and, at least by sight, your father, yourself and your brothers.'
Arwain looked disconcerted. ‘Honoured Maeran. I'm afraid I've no recollection of a visit by Whendreachi dignitaries ever,’ he said, awkwardly.
The Maeran made a conciliatory gesture. ‘Please, my title's a little cumbersome. My name's Haynar. I'm just a humble merchant,’ he said. ‘I go to Serenstad and many other places simply on matters of trade and business.’ He nodded to himself. ‘It's a marvellous, bustling place. Full of vigour and opportunities, for those who can seize them. Besides, formal receptions aren't to my taste, if I'm honest about it.’ Then he shrugged. ‘And as a neutral city, we like to avoid any actions that could be construed, however wrongly, as being partisan.'
'Do you travel also to Bethlar?’ Arwain risked.
'Oh yes,’ came the unhesitating reply. ‘Though not as much. They do precious little in the way of trading and they aren't the happiest of people to be among.’ He laughed. ‘I don't suppose I should say that really in view of the fact that I'm at least three-quarters Bethlarii myself.’ The man's informality and joviality were infectious, but Arwain carefully avoided relaxing too much. He has seen his father use precisely the same technique to lure information gently from some unsuspecting individual.
'Anyway,’ Haynar continued. ‘I've sprung my little surprise, now perhaps you could spring yours.'
'I have nothing to spring, I hope, sir,’ Arwain said, blandly. ‘I was asked to come here by my father to seek information.’ Briefly he outlined the message that the Bethlarii envoy had brought to Serenstad.
As he spoke, Haynar began to tap his foot agitatedly.
'This is appalling,’ he burst out, when Arwain had finished. He jabbed his forefinger into the arm of his chair. ‘We won't tolerate it. Never again will we allow ourselves to be used as some kind of a pawn in the eternal games that Bethlar and Serenstad play,’ he said fiercely, now very much a leader of men.
Arwain was taken aback. ‘We play no game, sir,’ he said earnestly. ‘You said yourself, our city is a marvellous place, bustling with vigour and opportunity. The only opportunities in war are death and survival, and it was war that the Bethlarii envoy spoke of as a result of what was happening here. If you know Serenstad and its people at all, you know that we seek no
war. We'll fight if we have to, but only if we have to, and with every reluctance. That's why I'm here, almost within a day of hearing them, to tell you of the Bethlarii's words and to ask you what truth lies in them, if any.'
Haynar's eyes narrowed. ‘Let's not be naive, Lord,’ he said. ‘There are other opportunities in war. Your brother's factories forge weapons as well as ploughshares and coach wheels. And he's a wild man. War might well suit many of his ends. And you've more than a few problems with some of your people that a war might judiciously alleviate.'
Arwain felt anger flare up inside him. Desperately he forced the image of his father into his mind; his father sitting calmly while the Bethlarii envoy had publicly insulted him. Sitting calmly and prevailing.
Surreptitiously he took a deep breath and released it slowly.
'I can't deny that there's a considerable element of truth in what you say, sir,’ he said, as quietly as he could manage, though it made his tightened jaw ache. ‘But if you feel that is the predominant element, then I must return to my father and confess that I have failed in my mission here, and advise him to send others, perhaps better suited to diplomacy.'
Haynar put his hand to his mouth casually, hiding further his already shaded face. He did not speak.
Arwain made to rise, but Haynar gently motioned him to remain seated. After a long pause, he stood up and walked over to the window.
'Did you notice the work on our walls as you arrived?’ he said, almost absently, after a further pause.
'Yes.'
'Expensive,’ Haynar said, shaking his head. ‘And wasteful. Time, effort, resources. All could be better spent. But we intend to emulate your father, Lord. We intend to be strong.’ He turned to look at Arwain. ‘Neutral,’ he insisted, raising a hand in emphasis. ‘But strong, resolute. Not aggressive.’ He gave a short, grim laugh. ‘The last thing we want is control over others. We're a people shaped through countless generations by the warfare of others and we intend to use the peace that your father began to become a third force in the land. A force that will bind us, Bethlar, Serenstad, all the cities and towns, with a myriad of tiny bonds of trade, trust and blood, so complex and intricate that war will cease to exist as a practical alternative in solving disputes.'