by Roger Taylor
‘Remind them that the penalty for that kind of stu-pidity is death,’ he told his Commanders. ‘In executing the sentence, the Queen merely saved me the trouble. Channel their resentment and loud talk into harder training.’
The need for those words, however, highlighted the doubts that occasionally rippled the surface of his contentment. The people crumbled, torn by doubt and ignorance, just as he had planned over the years. His assumption of the title of Ffyrst had freed him from many of the petty restraints that had so long irritated him, and since the seizure of Vakloss after Eldric’s Accounting, he had begun to feel his progress in measurable strides.
But every now and then, when least expected, there would be a jolt of opposition, like a plough striking a hidden rock: the damage wrought to the Mandrocs by Jaldaric and his patrol; the rescue of the Lords; Eldric returning to demand an Accounting. This latter had worked for the best in the end in that it precipitated the seizure of Vakloss, but it had been perilously dangerous, and Hawklan’s hand could be felt there, surely? Hawklan? Where are you, you demon? Was Eldric’s return but a feint within a feint?
But these were thoughts for darker moments. Al-ready many of the Lords had fallen victim to his wide-strewn lies and some had even joined him in condemn-ing Eldric and the others as traitors. Now he could concentrate on swaying the less gullible to his side. Then, as necessary, he could crush all other opposition by force of arms. But always he must remember that Hawklan too would be laying his traps.
You lose each time we meet, Hawklan. And you’ll not tempt me to my Old Power now. Not now. No slip on my part will awaken you. I’ll bind you yet, for when the Lords are crushed, the game will have slipped from you forever. When they’re exhausted with slaying their own turncoat kin, and their hearts are dead at what they’ve had to do, then I’ll launch my real armies against them.
The thought was comforting. It would be pleasant to see these creatures slaughtering one another again. A fitting atonement for the years their ancestors had made him spend in dark bondage.
‘Patience, patience, patience,’ he said to Dilrap. ‘While we control the knowledge given to the people, events must surely move our way. Ignorance is a vital flux. Melting down the resistance of the people and making them more amenable to our suggestions.’
He stared at Dilrap thoughtfully. Why should I speak thus to this lackey? Why do I even keep him about me now? He’s very useful, but no longer indispensable. Surely not gratitude? It had been Dilrap who engineered the details that gave a gloss of legality to his becoming Ffyrst. Dilrap had diligently rendered himself unneces-sary and totally vulnerable. Dan-Tor narrowed his eyes, and Dilrap, catching the look, cringed visibly.
It came to him suddenly that Dilrap understood him, insofar as any of these creatures could understand him. Dilrap appreciated the subtleties of what he, Dan-Tor, was doing, independent of whether he approved of them or not, independent of whether he realized the ultimate outcome. He understood and marvelled. And envied. Worshipped, even?
That the pleasure he gained from this thought was simply the despised human trait of vanity, did not occur to Dan-Tor. It was an awe to which he was entitled. A faint, distant whisper asked ‘Is he a danger?’ but it could hardly be heard above the clamour of self-praise. No, no. Danger lies only in Hawklan and impatience. There’s no danger in this scurrying bladder. He’s just another human clutching gratefully at the knees of his execu-tioner, in mortal fear for his mayfly life.
And, in part, he was right. Dilrap was in fear of his life, and he did understand the Ffyrst’s machinations. But he neither envied nor worshipped. Just as the years of Dan-Tor’s influence and ‘improvement’ to the Fyordyn way of life had accumulated to lead them disastrously from their ancient roots and leave them bewildered and lost, so years of scorn and derision had accumulated and festered in Dilrap to make him a man very different from the plump youth who had trailed after his stern and haughty father, and subsequently gone on to be the butt of every Palace wag. His trem-bling nature was shored by two great props: his love of the Queen and his deep and growing hatred of Dan-Tor.
But in understanding Dan-Tor, so he knew his own vulnerability, and, like Dan-Tor, he too wondered why he was still privy to the Ffyrst’s musings. The uncer-tainty, and his sense of Dan-Tor’s own uncertainty, did little to calm him. His nights became fretful and nightmare-haunted, where once they had been a solace and a retreat from the torments of his waking hours.
‘Majesty, I’m afraid,’ he blurted out inadvertently to the Queen one day.
Sylvriss felt the weight of his burden added to her own; strangely heavier to bear since her confrontation with the Sirshiant. Having gained a deeper insight into the ancient ties between the Riddinvolk and their horses, part of her almost snarled, ‘We’re all afraid, Dilrap. Do what you have to do. Don’t come bleating to me’. But that same insight helped her set this savage shade aside and she laid her hand on his shoulder.
‘I understand, Dilrap,’ she said. ‘Has anything hap-pened to make you especially alarmed?’
Dilrap shook his head and then poured out his complex mixture of doubts and fears. Sylvriss let the words flow unhindered into the scented air of her chamber, until he fell silent. She stared at herself in a small mirror on her table, watching as a hand reached up and fingered a worried line etching itself perma-nently into her face.
‘I’ve no answers, Dilrap,’ she said eventually. ‘Who can say what motivates the man?’
Of late she had been trying to pursue Dan-Tor’s actions to their logical end, but had given up in despair. They seemed to lead to some form of Kingship. Not the cautious, thoughtful Kingship of Rgoric and his predecessors, but some appalling, unfettered authority over everyone and everything. But why?
Why should anyone want such authority? And it could only be over a cowed and damaged people, for damaged they would be. The people of Vakloss were already too afraid to speak publicly in opposition to Dan-Tor, and sooner or later he would have to face the Lords in battle. Lords who would probably fight to a bitter end. The man’s mind was beyond her.
She turned away from the mirror, with its wretched intimations of her own mortality. She too was afraid. The fear and mistrust that soaked the City had seeped into the Palace. Her many contacts were dwindling and she had no way of knowing whether this was through increased caution or whether they had been arrested and had revealed their secrets to their interrogators.
She clung to what she knew and what she could reasonably infer; conjecture was infinite. Certainly, none of the Lords still in the City could be safely trusted. Those with whom she had made discreet contact had quietly slipped away, and those who were left kept an uncertain neutrality or sided openly with Dan-Tor, for a variety of reasons.
It came to her gradually that whether or not Dan-Tor discovered her covert opposition to him was irrelevant. She was effectively imprisoned in the Palace, guarded as she was on the increasingly rare occasions she was allowed into the City. Her ability to influence affairs or even to know of them was diminishing rapidly. He doesn’t need to expose any of my deeds, she thought. Save one. His every action stifles opposition and isolates me.
But her one massive act of defiance was gathering a momentum of its own, and slipping beyond her control. It was a blessing turned fearful bane. As Dan-Tor had moved forwards more openly to greater power, his need for the King had declined, and consequently so had the attention lavished on him. However, as an iron ring of warriors had once guarded Ethriss, so Sylvriss had encompassed her husband with a silken ring of trusted attendants, herself its jewelled clasp, affecting the role of demure nursewife. Slowly she had continued weaning him from Dan-Tor’s potions and slowly, uncertainly, the King had gained strength and well-being.
She glanced at her face in the mirror again and smoothed out the offending line. Her eyes shone wet for a moment as she knew that the concerns impressed on her face had not been primarily for herself, but for the King, and the constant worry about what he coul
d and could not safely be told of outside events, and how he could be restrained from interfering without too much lying.
It had always been difficult, but now he was improv-ing daily and all her decisions caused her torment. Was he or was he not strong enough to hear the full truth of what had happened? Would her very deceit destroy him and his love for her? Would he be pitched back into his black dependence on Dan-Tor? Or would he be prompted to some dire action against the man, here, with his own Palace infested with alien guards, and with his loyal Lords so far away?
Abruptly, she said, ‘We must escape.’
Dilrap looked up, eyes wide. ‘Escape, Majesty?’ he echoed.
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. The words had slipped out almost unnoticed while she was preoccupied, but hanging in the air they crystallized her thoughts. ‘Dan-Tor may tire of you soon, Dilrap. He may discover our schemes to hinder him. He’ll surely find out about the King’s health soon, and when that happens, where are we?’ She swept her arm around the room, soft and comforting, a haven amidst the turmoil. ‘We’re already imprisoned. Trussed like market chickens. Helpless and impotent.’
Dilrap fluttered. Sylvriss’s remarks had brutally summarized their predicament. He clutched at a straw. ‘If the King is stronger, Majesty, cannot he help us?’
Sylvriss shook her head, but offered no other com-ment.
Dilrap fell silent. This was a domain that he knew the Queen kept even from him, for his own sake. ‘But where could we go, Majesty?’ he said eventually. ‘And what of the King? And all the people who’ve helped us?’ There was a hint of reproach in his voice.
The Queen replied without hesitation. ‘We go to the Lords in the east,’ she said. ‘And the King goes with us. As for our helpers, we do them no great service in receiving their loyalty in this way. Not now. From now on they must watch and wait. Keep the old ways alive quietly, against the coming of happier times.’
Dilrap’s eye flickered restlessly around the room as he tried to free Sylvriss’s sudden determination from images of shining blades and hard, indifferent faces approaching him purposefully at the behest of some trivial signal from Dan-Tor. ‘But how, Majesty? And when?’ he asked plaintively.
‘The how should present no serious problem,’ Sylvriss replied. ‘You’re allowed to move freely in and out of the Palace and I’m still allowed to move freely inside. A rendezvous and a small cache of supplies can be arranged inconspicuously enough then it’ll just be a matter of surprise and speed when a suitable opportu-nity presents itself.’
Dilrap’s hands butterflied up in spite of himself. Sylvriss looked at him. ‘Majesty… ’ he began awkwardly, ‘I… can’t ride.’
Sylvriss could not prevent a smile. ‘I’ve held more inept than you on a saddle at full gallop, Dilrap,’ she said, with a soft laugh. ‘You won’t enjoy it, but you’ll survive.’
Dilrap bowed his head. ‘I’m a poor support to you, Majesty. In constant need of encouragement and courage.’
Sylvriss’s hands took his and she looked directly at him, all humour gone. ‘No, Dilrap,’ she said. ‘You work daily by the side of that man, deceiving him, lying to his evil, cracked face, delaying and gently hindering him. And you do this in the face of your own fear. Your courage and strength have sustained me over all these dark months. You belong among the very greatest who’ve ever held your office.’
Dilrap stood. No courtier, he was at a loss what to say. He bowed deeply to hide his face.
Sylvriss stood up also. ‘There is one thing, however, that I must ask of you,’ she said. Dilrap’s eyes remained downcast. ‘If the King and I are thwarted in this, you must keep yourself clear of all blame. Speak against us if you must.’
Dilrap looked up sharply.
Sylvriss raised her hand to prevent his protest. ‘This is my order, Honoured Secretary,’ she said. ‘My Royal Command. I leave you no discretion. If all goes against us, it’s imperative that you stay by Dan-Tor as long as you can and work for a time when you can make links with the Lords in the east. You understand?’
Dilrap bowed again.
When he had gone, Sylvriss reached out and extin-guished the torches that illuminated her room. The darkness was restful. For a long time she sat on the broad sill of the window and stared up at the stars.
Now she would have to tell the King.
Chapter 52
Although Dan-Tor now controlled Vakloss and various other towns and villages, he was not sanguine about the Lords gathering their forces in the east. He knew that, quite rightly, Arinndier and the other Lords would never trust him to honour any treaty he might offer, so armed conflict seemed inevitable. He had little doubt that his forces would ultimately be victorious, but while the prospect of these creatures slaughtering one another was not without its appeal, he would have preferred a quieter, more subtle approach. Chance rampaged too wildly through the ranks of war no matter what powers were ranged, and it was a way chosen by Him only as a last extremity.
Nor was his mind eased by the paucity of informa-tion that reached him from the east. With the birds bound he had, reluctantly, to rely on human spies, and these either never returned or brought him vague and contradictory information, thanks to the watchfulness and diligent deceit of the Goraidin.
Urssain fretted noisily. ‘We’ve men enough, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘Trained, disciplined and willing. More than enough. We should move now and overwhelm the Lords before they can build up their strength further.’
‘Commander,’ said Dan-Tor benignly, ‘you must learn patience. Consider the consequences of such a venture. How many men would you need to keep this City subdued? There’s little point winning a great victory against the Lords to find your back assailed by a rebellious Vakloss. And how many would you need to protect our flanks as you moved through increasingly debatable areas of the country?’ Urssain looked inclined to answer but Dan-Tor continued, his tone becoming more severe. ‘And who do you think you’ll be facing? It won’t be their ornamental regiments. It’ll be the kindred of those you saw fight in Orthlund. And they were youths led by a youth. You’ll be facing skilled fighters on their own ground, led by battle-hardened veterans from the Morlider War.’ Dan-Tor brought his face close to Urssain’s. ‘And say you break them, what then? They’ll scatter into the mountains before they’re damaged beyond repair, and we’ll never be rid of them.’
Urssain bridled. This was defeatist talk. He would have killed any other man for less. The given word was that the Mathidrin were the new hope. They had brought peace back to the streets, and would now sustain a New Order that would make Fyorlund great again. The old High Guards had fled before them-unequivocal proof of the guilty part they had played in the decay of the country, and an unequivocal demon-stration of the invincibility of the Mathidrin. With difficulty he swallowed his reply.
Dan-Tor noted the conflict in his protege, and per-mitted himself a white-lined smile which made Urssain offer up a prayer to whatever spirit had bidden him keep his tongue still.
‘Surely we can’t leave them alone, Ffyrst?’ he risked.
Dan-Tor turned and walked away from him. ‘Can’t we?’ he said casually. ‘We’ll see what your fellows think, Urssain. Arrange a meeting of all the City Commanders. It’s time we discussed the matter. Perhaps it would be appropriate to call it a Council of War.’
* * * *
Urssain spent the time waiting for the meeting pacing his room or sitting sprawled in his chair rapt in thought. He still couldn’t read the brown devil. What had he missed? Why had Dan-Tor so mocked the idea of attacking the Lords, and why had he answered so enigmatically when he’d suggested they shouldn’t be left there unhindered?
He had still reached no conclusion when he accom-panied Dan-Tor into the sparse, cold room where the Commanders were gathered, but he had determined to play a very cautious hand. This would be another time for watching and learning. He might not be able to read the man completely, but he could read him a damn sight better than any of the others.
As Dan-Tor entered, they rose as one, coming smartly to attention to greet their Lord. Like Urssain, they were all immaculate in dress uniform.
‘Sit down, gentlemen,’ said Dan-Tor affably, seating himself at the head of the long rectangular table, and motioning Urssain to sit at his right-hand side. ‘I’ve asked you here because I wish to have your ideas about our problem in the east.’
Straight in, thought Urssain. No introductions. What’s he doing? Who are these people? The questions thrust themselves into Urssain’s mind, but be dismissed them for later consideration. Now he must watch and listen.
‘Our discussion will be informal,’ continued Dan-Tor. ‘I’m expecting no great strategy to emerge, but with the City and much of the countryside reasonably under control we must begin to bend our minds to this problem, and we have to start somewhere.’
Urssain kept his own face neutral as he watched those now turned to focus on the presence beside him. Only Aelang understood. The others were relaxing. They were taking their Ffyrst’s affability at its face value.
The immediate consensus accorded with Urssain’s initial view. Attack now-hard-before they grow too strong. Dan-Tor listened with nodding interest as various company prides and promises were paraded before him. Urssain said nothing.
Then, as he had with Urssain, Dan-Tor dropped in the occasional comment about troop strengths, supply problems, lack of reliable intelligence, debatable loyalties etc, and slowly, his own strategy appeared. The Lords should be left, he suggested.