In a Time of Treason

by David Keck

Durand glanced, and saw Coensar still poised upon the gangplank, his eyes dark.

  “I will give you all a bit of parchment with my seal upon it,” said the official. From the man’s neck dangled a large ring seal, with an angular hawk or eagle upon it. “I would suggest that you leave your belongings to avoid time-consuming inspections and seals for your goods.”

  While the dockmaster bowed the gray avenues gaped behind him, half of Lamoric’s men were on the point of defying the man.

  “The Eye of Heaven will rise in moments, gentlemen,” said Lamoric. “I will ask Coensar to get you all to an inn, and leave a message at the docks so that I may find you. If I don’t . . .” He stroked his throat, and winced a grin. “Check the pikes around and about. You may see my head grinning down. We’re off.”

  The captain’s mouth tightened, but then he nodded and stepped down into the Bittern. There was nothing for it.

  With an apologetic shrug, Durand set off alone with Deorwen and Lamoric.

  9. In the Hall of Eagles

  They climbed empty avenues lined with sanctuaries and hollow mansions. Shabby wooden constructions leaned against the ruined glory of their neighbors, and sometimes the rubble walls of meager dwellings sported stolen masonry. Lamoric had Deorwen’s hand. She glanced at Durand.

  “We will have no time to change our surcoats,” Lamoric announced. “Secondhand rags in the Hall of the Voyager King! Though it may do us some good. What will I say to the man? You would think something would come to me. A great deal will depend on the man’s mood. Here we are, threadbare and exhausted. Red-eyed and pale with fatigue. His Majesty may assume Gireth’s come upon hard times. Perhaps there will be pity!”

  Idols grinned down from every corner, watching each twilit crossroads. Banners had been mounted to every house, blue and gold for Errest’s king. High above, the sky seemed ready to burst with light.

  “We must run,” said Lamoric.

  But then the bells tolled.

  From every sanctuary tower in the aged city, bronze notes jarred the Heavens and mortar trickled from high places. In the streets it was still twilight, but beyond the marble walls and spires, the Eye of Heaven must have returned to Creation.

  Lamoric stopped, spinning and staring heavenward, lost for a long moment in the cacophony. There was a good heartbeat of honest despair in Lamoric’s features—Durand felt like a murderer—and then Lamoric tried to smile.

  “Well,” he said, “I suppose that is—”

  But at that moment, a sudden change came over the old city. A great wind bowled down the street, lashing heavy banners. Durand caught his cloak before the gust could snatch it from his shoulders. The sky dimmed, and thunder boomed in the north.

  “This is no natural storm, husband,” said Deorwen. “We should find cover.”

  “How far can the palace be?” demanded Lamoric, but lightning cracked the Heavens. They could hear dogs barking and asses braying behind the doors of the city.

  Durand spread his hands. “Quickly, then.”

  They jogged up avenues and alleys. Faces peered at the storm from shuttered windows.

  Finally, they darted through a gap between mansions, and stumbled into the great courtyard called the King’s Walk that stretched between the soaring high sanctuary of Eldinor and the Mount of Eagles. Here, armies had mustered in the High Kingdom days.

  Deorwen was looking at the clouds. “Husband, there is something very wrong.” Heaven twitched in a thousand shades of bruising. Durand remembered the rings he had seen over Yrlac when the river hag broke free. The ranked towers of Saerdan’s Mount of Eagles and the spires of the high sanctuary shuddered in the strange light. “You must hear me. This is no natural storm. There is a warning in it.”

  Before the gates, three thousand beggars waited for the handouts likely to accompany a royal celebration.

  “I must press on,” said Lamoric. “Every instant compounds my folly. His Majesty will think my father’s turned his back on the crown. A simple errand, and I could bring the Host of Errest down on the old man’s head. I must get in there.”

  Durand grimaced. They would have to pass every beggar within fifty leagues. There was only one gate. “We’ll have a hard job getting through.”

  “And worse convincing the gatekeepers to let us in, dressed in these rags. Host of Heaven! We’ll be fighting for leftovers when the feasting’s finished,” Lamoric said. Durand set his teeth. Lamoric did not deserve to be made a fool.

  But then a roar arose in the old courtyard.

  Durand joined the others, staring in astonishment. It was rain, falling like a battalion of cavalry. It rebounded from the courtyard’s white cobbles—bouncing—and in moments the whole city was rattling, full of ice and sliding roof tiles. The crowds scattered.

  “Hail,” said Deorwen.

  “Here’s your sign, Deorwen,” said Lamoric.

  They chased him across the empty square for the gates.

  A MAN WITH a face like two jet buttons and a blob of dough led them through the passageways of the rambling Mount of Eagles as the storm clattered above.

  “Come. Yes. Things are under way. Under way. We are busy here. It is only the Mount of Eagles.” The man waddled, his breath steaming. His bare head seemed to roll around the collar of a cassock. Durand noticed inky blotches.

  “Can you tell me of His Majesty’s mood?” said Lamoric.

  The little man flapped his hands. “Late. No help for it. Still. A shame. You will wear these clothes?”

  They crossed a courtyard of hog-backed cobbles that ran with ice water. Durand listened for the hubbub of feasting, on edge at the idea of standing up in front of the throne, but was distracted when a flock of black-clad functionaries darted across the other end of the yard. Had he startled them?

  Their guide led them deeper.

  “What about the king?” pressed Lamoric. “There must have been receptions leading to this one. He will have enjoyed greeting—”

  “You might have borrowed a servant’s spares but for the time,” the man grunted. “A shame. A grand design marred.”

  Lamoric was about to press further, but Deorwen spoke. “I am sure it is a great effort to plan such an event.”

  The little man fluttered around, stirring the reek of sour bacon in his black garb. “Master of Tapers, am I.”

  Lamoric’s mouth opened. “They sent the Master of Tapers to greet the emissary of Duke—”

  “I suppose it is a very great responsibility,” Deorwen said.

  The Master of Tapers bobbed his head. “Not one building, the Mount of Eagles. No. Hundreds. Streets. Alleys. The High Kings, they needed halls for herd-feeding; cookhouses, steam and cauldrons; storehouses; barracks for guards and their iron pots; rooms for the shining winking things; dovecotes crammed with pigeons; armories heaped with bladed things; cesspits for a thousand bowels; cellars; and narrow rooms for those who’ve done wrong. Yes.”

  “It seems a very great place indeed. Is it very far to the oathtaking then?”

  Sometimes a passage opened on the rude flank of some stronghold now smothered in palace corridors, sometimes a grand presence chamber sat under dust.

  But at the end of every passage, there seemed to be a flock of the king’s black functionaries. The first group they passed were sitting, the next were on their feet, and the next were on the move. Like so many starlings, these black creatures darted off each time Durand caught a glimpse. The castle was thick with them, and something had stirred the creatures up.

  And the storm mumbled beyond the old roofs.

  “And I must watch that grease is rendered and wicks dipped,” said the little man, “and each must find the court where it squats by nightfall. Thousands they need.” He grinned. “Hot work.”

  “But still,” said Deorwen, “it must be done, I suspect.” She glanced Durand’s way. “All of these halls must have light. Is the Hall of Kings near? You must take many candles there.”

  “A great many. But there are pleasures to be
had in the rendering. Cheerful things.” He bared a row of yellow teeth, and snuffled noisily at the air. “Though the children hate it. Hot work, poor sweeties.”

  “How will I approach him?” Lamoric said. “There will be Ragnal on the Hazelwood Throne and kinsmen of every duke in Errest the Old, all kneeling before him. I will give my father’s oath.” He scratched his neck. “Perhaps I can bring up the rest of it later on. Not before everyone. There will be other chances. A man must ask the king’s leave even to depart. Hells. My heart’s in my mouth. I’d rather play with lances.”

  Sandals and whispers rushed along before them like a bow wave of dry leaves. But Lamoric was already before the throne in his mind, imagining the throngs of noblemen and servants.

  Durand heard only starlings and thunder.

  “Near now,” said Tapers. “Very near.”

  The corridors narrowed, cold as mountains. Now, they were in Saerdan Voyager’s footsteps. But Durand heard the rattle of soldiers on the move—shields and axes on armored backs. Thunder growled.

  And Tapers led them into an aisle of statues: men made giants; Powers made stone.

  “Here!” said the little man as he rounded a last idol’s knee. The parade of kings and idols had become the doorposts of a great brass portal. This was Saerdan’s ancient fortress, trapped in palaces. “Beyond is the Hall of the Kings,” said their guide.

  And there, as they turned the corner, huddled Heremund the Skald.

  The tiny, rumpled man stood against the gleaming vastness of the doors, slack-jawed and staring. Here was Durand’s comrade of the autumn—bowlegs, gap-teeth, saddle nose, shapeless hat and all. He huddled by another of Ragnal’s functionaries. Dark reflections of the pair quivered in brass above and marble below.

  The skald gaped. “You can’t be here!”

  “I assure you—” began a consternated Master of Tapers.

  There was a commotion behind the great doors. It sounded more like a riot than a feast. A table scraped on stone.

  “No. Not here,” Heremund’s companion stammered. An epic paunch had this man’s cassock short in front and long behind. “Uh. You’re what? The chandler?”

  Their guide flinched. “Master of—”

  “—Ah, Tapers, aye. Uh, no. You’d have had no way of knowing. Who would think to tell you?” After a moment’s hesitation, the man smiled. “I’ll have to take them now. There’s nothing for it.”

  Someone roared beyond the doors.

  “I don’t—” began the Master of Tapers.

  The new starling shook his jowled head. “No reason you should, friend. They are mine to deal with now.”

  Heremund got his hand on Lamoric’s arm. “We must be off,” he whispered. “There’s no time.” In a moment, they’d put three corners between themselves and the astonished Master of Tapers. The bulky new starling yanked open a door, and they all darted inside. Deorwen stepped in ahead of Durand, and Heremund’s friend slammed the door just as Durand realized they’d stepped into some black cupboard or closet.

  Deorwen must have turned. Her breath feathered his neck, her chest rose and fell against his tunic. He wished he’d had a chance—any chance—to speak with her. The door shook against his back with the sound of footfalls—full of muscle and armor. He remembered the whetted curve of the guardsmen’s broadaxes.

  The rumble ebbed away, and the stranger’s voice breathed into the narrow space. “Heremund, you’ve killed me. Host of Heaven. My heart’s pounding fit to burst.”

  Durand could find no air. Deorwen moved. Her hand slipped into his, gripping hard.

  “What is all this about?” demanded Lamoric. “I’m meant to be carrying my father’s oath to Ragnal.”

  “Is there a way out of here, Hod?” said Heremund. “Any way these buggers won’t be watching?”

  “It is too much,” the stranger answered. “That pig-boiling goblin back there might have known my face. I’ll end my days guttering on a candle-spike.”

  “You underrate yourself, Hod. They’ll make more than one candle from a man your size. Don’t—”

  There was a furious and invisible struggle that jostled Deorwen hard against Durand. He felt a thigh, the curve of her ribs—

  “Heremund,” Durand snarled, “on my oath . . .”

  “I’m opening the door,” said Hod. “Heaven help me, but be careful, all of you.”

  Deorwen’s hand slipped from Durand’s, and the door opened.

  They stumbled into the passageway and everyone jogged after Hod. Durand took a moment to shake his head. Hod stumped down a rabbit’s warren of stairs and passages.

  “It’s Ragnal,” Heremund said, explaining.

  “It’s not,” said Hod.

  “He’s thrown everyone in bloody prison,” Heremund said.

  “He hasn’t!”

  “Heremund!” Lamoric said. “I have a duty back there. What is going on?”

  “They’re hostages,” Heremund explained. “All of them! I suppose he had to do something after the Great Council last year.”

  Hod shook his head. “They’ve been nattering at him. ‘The only certainty is blood.’ Nattering in his ear all the moons of wintertide. Drip, drip, drip the poison goes.”

  They trotted into a black passageway lit by crabbed fans of light from its arrow loops.

  “Oaths weren’t enough for him,” said Heremund, “so he seized every man and woman the barons sent. Sons. Heirs. The Duke of Garelyn came himself!”

  Abruptly Hod shot his arms across the passageway, barring all progress. Heremund made to open his mouth, but was wrapped in smothering hands before he could make a sound.

  “We must stop here a moment, and then proceed with care,” Hod whispered. “I will go first. You all will follow—after an interval. Move quickly and quietly. Follow too quickly and they will have little doubt what’s happening. And try to look as if you know what you’re about.

  “Certain death.” He raised a thick finger to his lips, then disappeared around the next corner.

  Heremund turned to the three who remained, whispering, “He’s seized them all! There’s been no oathtaking. Armed men at the doors, and they the sons of great men. I don’t think his knights liked the plan. It was mostly these commoner sergeants. There was Ragnal on the Hazelwood Throne with the planks of Atthi’s coffer under his damnable backside. He’ll win no friends with this.”

  “Was everyone there, skald?” said Lamoric.

  A scuff from somewhere in the passageway behind them made Durand turn and he stepped to get Deorwen behind him. He heard the rattle of mail and took a stride away from the others, making ready to draw his blade. It would be treason. You could not strike the king’s men down.

  “Durand,” said Lamoric, “I’d back you against half the knights in Errest, but you’re no use against fifty. We’ll have to follow this Hod, no matter how long it’s been.”

  As the voices closed in, everyone gave their nod—Heremund last—and the party strode around the corner.

  And into a crowded room. There were tables and horn lamps. Black-cassocked scribes sat at parchments, penknife and quill in stained fingers. Every face turned their way, cocked like mooncalves’ at their arrival. Eyes glittered. Many mouths looked full of ink, blotted black.

  Heremund thrust his chin into the air and bandied down the long aisle between the scribs’ tables. “I have strummed for many a feast,” he chatted. “But we’ll need all our players now. The rebec. The viol. The harp and the fipple flute.” The others followed on his heels. But many of the scribes got to their feet, baring all their teeth in sly leers. “Is there one of you who plays the tabor pipe, did you say?” By the time the party had crossed the scriptorium, the room was full of rustling parchment and sandals.

  The devils were following.

  On the far side, Hod met their party in a doorway. Durand reckoned they had moments.

  “I did not expect you so soon,” Hod said. His voice was still.

  “There was naught else to do,
” Heremund said.

  Hod shut his eyes and nodded deeply. “It doesn’t matter now. There are bedchambers in this tower. Princes’, till they grew up. This way’s down.” He raised a clay lamp, and spoke to Heremund. “Tell the big brute to shut the door behind you.”

  Durand closed the door.

  Down a low and narrow stair they crept, Durand bent between the walls as he chased the silhouettes of the others down.

  “Hod, where’ve you taken us?” whispered Heremund.

  “A bolt-hole, in case the Mount of Eagles was ever taken. A few of the king’s retainers could bundle the monarch out while the rest fought from the towers.”

  “We’re nowhere near the walls yet.”

  “Ah. But that was once-upon-a-time, Heremund. The Mount is riddled with bolt-holes now. Most were swallowed up as the High Kings heaped masonry on the Mount in the days before Parthanor.” He brushed a wall, and a blanket of dust detached itself to tumble over him. “Hells. How am I to explain that I am covered in dust?”

  “These men, these clerks . . .” Lamoric ventured.

  Heremund spoke. “Hod. You might as well give him your speech.”

  The jowled head turned a moment. “Venal, dangerous men. Flatterers. Most are newcomers since His Highness was crowned; some I’ve known for years. But it could not matter less. They are changed, and none can be trusted any longer.”

  “How have you managed to keep clear of it?” asked Lamoric.

  “Oh, I’ve been a wise man. Wise enough to bite my tongue, no matter what I’ve seen.”

  Lamoric blinked. “Surely your duty to—”

  “Ah, Your Lordship, but that is the first part of my wisdom. Duty, conscience, honor—all of it, I have cast away. I have watched fierce men steeped in wisdom stand before the king only to be grinned at by these toadies—the rage of great men sweetly tolerated like the shrieking of infant children. But, afterward, they are never heard of again.

  “To remain myself and alive, I have made myself perfectly ineffectual. A serpent envies my spine for suppleness; I carry worthlessness as my shield. There is no force so weak that I cannot submit to its might.”