Revelyn: 1st Chronicles - When the last arrow falls

by Chris Ward

  *

  The Carriave barn stood well below the White Palace, but still on enough of a rise to give it a commanding view of the country to the north and east of Ramos. It was from a platform high up overlooking the city, at the top of the barn that the carriaves were released. Birds bred for fast and continuous flight, and able to return to a roost anywhere in the kingdom, from any place else, they were the method of choice by all Revelyn who could afford it, to send news and messages of one’s affairs. There were few jobs more sought after than working with the carriaves. In breeding and training, locating and retrieving, a vast network of servants and paid freemen and women, worked hard to ensure that such a vital communication system worked, and in the end, it provided a living wage for many families. All the birds were owned by the King, and to steal one or interfere in any way with a carriave was to invite the most severe punishment. Even death.

  Rema entered the Carriave office situated in the front of the barn and was immediately aware of the smell, and the soft cooing and calling of the hundreds of birds kept safe and warm in their carefully labelled roosts, elsewhere in the building. A handful of people, all in different dress from rich to poor, were immersed in the business of sending and receiving messages. A youth dressed in bright livery, bearing an embroidered image of a carriave on his chest, hurried out carrying a fresh message for some dignitary. Two other youths, in identical clothing sat on a bench waiting for a similar errand. They looked serious and withdrawn and Rema was once more struck by the sadness of the place, as though the messages were all about death and fear. There was no joy here, just a sombre duty to be performed.

  Rema approached a large wooden counter and spoke with an old and rather wizened man with a crooked nose.

  ‘Sending or receiving?’ the man inquired rather rudely in a high pitched voice, without glancing up from a large ledger. This irritated Rema, and so he stood and said nothing. The man repeated the question impatiently, once more not lifting his eyes from his bookwork. Rema waited a moment, and then reached over and gently took the quill pen from the man’s hand, and with his free hand, lifted the bowed head until he was looking into a pair of watery eyes, which spoke of many years held low and squinting over parchments in poor light. They were weak eyes, rude eyes, but somewhat fearful in that moment.

  ‘Ah!’ said Rema with gentle sarcasm, ‘You have a face, not just a voice.’

  ‘No need to be rude...’ the man began

  ‘As you have been.’ Rema cut him off, and suddenly the little crooked man realised that he had no idea who was before him, and if it were king’s business he was in perilous danger. He suddenly sat up straight like a small boy in school, and became most attentive. Fear did that to a man. Rema leaned forward and spoke quietly, so that no other could hear.

  ‘I wish to send a message to Farview.’ He watched the man’s face carefully, and knew in that instant that there was danger in this. The man’s left eye twitched ever so slightly. It might be nothing, but it was what he feared. Any message to the Highlands could be suspicious. He suddenly cursed himself for picking the largest carriave barn in all Revelyn. He could have used one of the smaller barns on the outskirts of the city, but he knew that he had no time for such a journey. His business needed haste.

  ‘Farview, is it? ‘The man spoke a little too quickly, and loudly. ‘I am not sure if we have any birds ready for that journey but I’ll go and check. In the meantime perhaps you could make out your message in the usual manner.’ The man handed Rema a tiny copper capsule in which the message would travel, and then disappeared through a small door into the large barn beyond. Rema took the capsule to a private bench provided with a quill pen and ink, and wrote out his short message on the thin official parchment which was cut to fit the capsule. He wrote in a tiny script.

  Goodman Cantor

  Sylvion is captured. Held at Vault on Bald Cape. Kindma murdered.

  I need your help. Do whatever seems best. I will contact

  you soon.. DANGER. They seek me too.

  Rema Bowman

  Having addressed the capsule appropriately he sealed the message inside using the standard wax imprint of Revelyn, available to all. Many, who sent frequent messages, and the richer citizens, had their own seals usually worn as a ring, but the vast majority of all traffic carried the king’s seal. He returned to the counter just as the little crooked man returned carrying a small cage containing a carriave. The cage bore the imprint, Farview.

  ‘It seems sira that we have one bird left. We take weeks to restock with birds from the Highlands. You have been fortunate.’ Rema said nothing but passed his capsule to the man who checked for a destination, then expertly opened the cage and fastened the light copper cylinder to the back of the bird with thin leather thongs which would not affect the bird in flight. Rema paid the man the fee from the small amount he had been given by Serenna that morning. He turned to leave, and walked out of the office in as calm a manner as he could fashion, knowing that if the man were to break the seal and look at his message he would be discovered. He quickly disappeared into the crowded streets below the Palace.

  The crooked little man with the wizened nose looked long and hard at the cage containing the carriave. He suspected that the message needed to be reported, but he could not bring himself to break the seal. Too many years of official routine and rules were hard to break. There had to be another way. In the end he placed the cage with the bird under the counter and without saying a word, put on his coat and hat and left the barn. He would go to the nearby soldier’s station, and report to the captain. Let him make the decision, thought the man.

  Back in the barn the man’s keen-eyed apprentice noticed the bird in the cage and knowing that a bird with a fresh capsule and seal must be sent off as soon as possible, took the creature up to the loft and out onto the release platform. He always enjoyed the release. The birds would fly high and circle around the barn before heading off in the direction they had been trained to take. In the centre of the platform was a large metal plate on which the direction and distance of many of the major destinations of Revelyn were marked. The boy placed the cage on the plate and searched for Farview.

  ‘Here we go then,’ he said placing his finger on the mark. ‘Farview, almost directly north, roughly four hundred leagues, that should take you about, let me see...’ He did the calculation slowly in his head, ‘...about thirty span, a little more if you have to dodge a hawk or two.’

  He opened the cage and held the bird as he had been taught, and tossed it high. The carriave took flight, eager now released from its tiny prison. It circled twice, three times, before heading off north to the delight of the boy who called out, ‘Good speed little one!’

  At that moment his master and two soldiers came rushing up the steps and onto the platform.

  ‘Where is the bird boy?’ his master called in horror. The boy did not look round for he liked to see the birds until they disappeared. He did not perceive the coming storm.

  ‘There he goes now, see, just beyond the timber mill to the north...’ His voice was cut off by the sword which ran him through. The captain of the soldiers was an evil fellow who had dealt death to many. The boy did not concern him. His orders were clear. Any support to spies for whatever reason, was death. He pulled the sword out of the dying lad, using his boot for purchase. The other soldier looked on, shocked, but said nothing.

  ‘I am sorry for this, I did what I could...’ said the wizened old man, suddenly appalled, and realising what his haste to report a simple suspicion had led to. It would have been better to have said nothing, and stayed in his office. He relaxed when the captain smiled at him.

  ‘Yes you did all you could. I would have expected no more.’ He wiped his sword and went to re-sheath it. With the weapon half way into the scabbard, the captain stopped, and scowled.

  ‘Then again little man, you didn’t do enough, did you.’ In a flash, his sword was out once more, and in a violent flash of steel, the betrayer joined his app
rentice, their blood mingling in death so differently to their relationship as master and servant in life.

  ‘Ah death!’ the captain spoke with a lopsided leer, ‘Get it while you can soldier, get it while you can. Sorry that I didn’t share. Next time will be your turn.’ And with an evil laugh he left. The other soldier stood and stared at the two dead people and realised for the first time, that he was surrounded by a madness, and had no way out.

  The bird flew fast, out beyond the city, over green fields and gentle undulating hills where clumps of trees formed small woods. There were many farms and barns this close to the city, but slowly they became less common, as the bird gradually flew higher following an inner sense which directed its path. After many leagues it encountered a large rocky hill topped with Tors all streaked in rusty iron oxides. This iron land affected the bird’s senses and so it flew in circles for a time, ever higher until the ore body below no longer confused it. Ever north it flew, resting on the wing every now and then to glide fast, losing height before once more resuming its powerful wing stroke, finding a rhythm, glad to be free and flying once more. Once it covered twenty leagues in a single span, but mostly it was somewhat closer to forteen. Its sharp eyes could see the land below quite clearly, and deep in its tiny brain, minute iron filaments directed it north, deviating hardly at all.

  But it did not see the falcon.

  High up above, no more than a tiny black dot in a vast sky, flew the falcon. It covered a huge territory each day and it preyed mostly on carriaves for they were slower, and so driven by their instinct to hold a course that they did not fly safely. The falcon was faster than the wind, and healthy, and supremely confident in its ability to drop out of the sky and take any other bird in its claws to its death. The falcon saw the bird below travelling north, its jerky type of flight was burnt into the flacon’s memory and it too followed a deep instinct. The falcon also saw the hawk. It was lower, and slower, but much bigger than the falcon and dangerous too, its talons could crush the life from even a revel-hare. The hawk had seen the carriave and it too knew how to hunt such a bird. The bird flew on, unaware of the death from above. The falcon suddenly folded its wings and dived, accelerating fast, it travelled like an arrow, aiming ahead of the bird so as to arrive at precisely the right moment. It had judged the distance instinctively; it knew that it would reach the bird before the hawk which was now also diving fast, but with wings held more open it was slower, or so the falcon thought. The hawk was wise and experienced, and had learnt to dive faster than any of its kin. Within moments the falcon realised this and made itself smaller, drawing its wings in closer still until it plummeted faster than ever it had before. The falcon knew that to open its wings too quickly now would tear one off, it was in a death zone, and all its energy was required to judge, re-judge and adjust. The hawk fell fast, but the falcon was a blur. The bird below travelled on, fifty wing beats then a rest, a glide and loss of height, fifty more beats and the height won back. Over and over, a perfect rhythm. It did not see the falcon, for it was travelling far too fast, but the larger and slower hawk made a fatal mistake and allowed its shadow to cross its quarry, for an instant only, but that was enough. The bird did not look but rolled and darted left and down, it was an instinct that needed no thought, it was life or death. The hawk adjusted quickly to cover the move, but the falcon, unable to adjust fast enough collided with the hawk at full speed. The hawk never knew what hit it. Such was the energy of the falcon’s dive, the two birds of prey disintegrated in a bloody mess of feathers and bone a thousand cubits above the earth, and then what remained of them spiraled slowly earthwards. The bird flew on, uncaring, always northward, without rest until after almost threescore span it arrived at the small carriave barn in the Highlands, on the edge of the massive escarpment, just outside Farview. The keeper recovered the tiny capsule shortly after, and shortly after Goodman Cantor read Rema’s message. It had cost the lives of four creatures.

  *

  Rema was not happy with his sending of the message to Goodman Cantor, that some foul deed would be the end of it, but he felt some safety now in the crowds, for Ramos was a busy place, and with his battered hat and cloak he received no stares or comments which caused him alarm. He knew that he could not return to the relative safety of Serenna’s house until nightfall, for the servants were about, and in any case, the window in daylight was too easily seen from the street. He was greatly troubled that Serenna had been unable to find the small parchment on which the vital prophecy had been written. She had visited his room before sunrise with the news, and her suspicion that Ethor had been in her chamber and taken it. She had written out what she remembered, but Rema knew that he needed the words to be correct, for a prophecy stands on what it says in its entirety, not on bits that have been half forgotten and then in desperation half remembered. He had left the house whilst shadows still lingered to give him cover, and had breakfasted at a tavern a long walk from the house, for he wanted to be well away from any who might be watching there. Serenna had given him simple directions in order that he might find the carriave barn, and so that deed was done, disturbing though it was. And now, the longer he walked and thought about his situation, the more he knew he needed to see the prophecy, but try as he might, he could think of no way to achieve his goal.

  There is an old saying in Revelyn that is most often used in jest.

  When least expected the coin lands on its edge.

  But such a saying has its roots in truth. And so it happened for Rema. He had walked and sat, and walked some more. He’d lingered in a market, watched a shackled bear dance for a cruel master, and a juggler with little skill hissed at for failing to please. He saw a child who stole an apple from a stall, caught, and beaten badly, and two drunken oafs fighting as those around cheered at every blow, and broken tooth. The daily life of Ramos unfolding scene by scene. And then just by chance, or perhaps not, he saw three soldiers riding towards him, forcing their way down a wide but crowded street. Rema thought little of this for there were soldiers all about, and none so far had challenged him beyond a curse to make way. But this once, he looked again at the three; unsure why, for they all wore the same tunic and there was nothing impressive in their carriage or demeanour, although one seemed familiar As they drew level, hardly a dozen paces distant, Rema noticed that the one he’d found familiar had a damaged hand, and a dark and angry manner. At that moment, this soldier chanced to look at Rema and for an instant their eyes met, and Rema knew his man. His heart jumped powerfully in his chest and it was all he could do not to turn and run, for it was the king’s man whose hand he had wounded on Gymble’s barge just a few days before. This man, he knew, of all in Ramos would in this moment be his mortal enemy. Rema did not know if he had been recognised, for he thought that this man had never seen his face, and his hat and cloak was a good disguise, but instantly an instinctive fear consumed him and he turned and hastily entered the door of a small and dusty shop, the only shop in all Revelyn which traded in old and interesting manuscripts.

  Rema’s coin had by chance, landed on its edge. A most unpredictable outcome.

  Rema stood with a pounding heart before a case of scrolls, and leather-bound parchments, but seeing no ancient treasures, only waiting, indeed, full expecting despite all reason the door to be flung open and feel cold steel at his back. He waited, unmoving for several long minutes before realising that he was safe, and doom was not impending. There was no pursuit. He looked around and noticed that the few customers were all standing staring at him.

  ‘My apologies for such an ungainly entry my friends,’ he said trying hard to think of what to say. ‘I just saw someone I would rather not talk with today. So here I am, hiding.’ He shrugged a little with embarrassment and gave a self-deprecating smile. It seemed to do the trick for no one wanted trouble, and they all, with a frown or scowl, turned back to whatever they had been doing. Rema was unwilling to return to the street right away so he lingered, idly scanning the shop and its wares. Suddenly h
e heard a conversation, muffled in part but clear enough to one such as Rema. The shop’s owner, from behind his untidy counter was chiding an old and pale skinned man with long grey hair and a walking stick.

  ‘You Wisden are always coming in here thinking what I have is for nothing. You might have the favour of the king, or you might not, I don’t care, but just once I’d like to sell you something without a haggling match. Now the price is the price. I’m not moving on that. Do you hear me old man?’ Rema looked over at the two. The owner had made his point, and now stood with arms folded across his chest and jaw jutting out in defiance. A pair of spectacles perched precariously on the end of a long pointy nose, whilst the set of his mouth and the pout on his lips made for an ugly but effective look.

  Rema cared little. Here before him was one of the Wisden. It mattered not one bit that he raised his hand in anger, and swept it at the shopkeeper in open hostility, and with a loud voice, also spoke his mind.

  ‘Baa, keep you useless parchment. No one else will buy it. I’ll be back, and I’ll not be changing my offer. You’ll see! Leaning on his cane the old man hobbled testily to the door, only to find a tall stranger in a battered hat and cloak holding it open for him. They left together.

  ‘You did the right thing there,’ said Rema solicitously, ‘when you know the value of something always stick to your price. Must say I’m most impressed.’ The old man looked up at his companion.

  ‘Thank you lad, but he was right. I’m always haggling too much. It’s my nature you see. Besides it’s him I don’t like. No sense of humour. Never knows when I’m serious or not.’ At this the old man stopped and leant on his cane and laughed heartily. Rema suddenly realised two things; that it was the first laughter he’d heard in a very long time, and the old man, the Wisden, was not easily read. He tried a new approach.