Whistler [A sequel to The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  Somehow he was able to let the turmoil of the day pass over and through him. What he could do, he would do, now. Even though some mysterious entity, whose true nature lay quite beyond his understanding, might be seeking to gain a foothold in this world, it was seemingly working through only Cassraw and, in the morning, simple practical steps would be taken that would surely put an end to Cassraw's manic progress.

  He went to sleep almost immediately and was largely untroubled as once again he found himself moving through what appeared to be the dreams of others. Even as he drifted uncontrollably between them he had the feeling that here was a gift that he should be able to use for the benefit of others. Memories of the brooding, bloody dream he had encountered as he had slept on his return from the Sick-House came to him to heighten this idea. A dream as full of murderous passion as it was cold indifference to anything other than itself. A dream that could only be the product of a deeply disturbed mind. Yet there was a familiarity about it. If he were able to identify the dreamer, he would perhaps be able to help him. But the familiarity eluded him and he could give his ideas no coherent shape and was soon lost in the blackness of his own sleep.

  Now he was both looking forward to and dreading what was to come. Looking forward because it was action, and it was right. Dreading because it felt like treachery to his friend. He was also a little tense because he had clashed with Nertha who had wanted to go to the Witness House with him to give her own account of Cassraw's sermon. There had been a small storm as, thoughtlessly, he had refused outright, though he had eventually managed to mollify her by saying that it was, after all, ‘church business’ and how would she and her colleagues feel if a Preaching Brother decided to tell them how to go about treating the sick?

  As he mounted his horse, he cringed inwardly at the thought of Nertha and Mueran meeting head on.

  As if he didn't have enough problems at the moment!

  * * * *

  Skynner, too, was planning that day. Or trying to. The rota of Keepers’ duties and routines which had served him almost all his professional life, and others before him, was in complete disarray. The first murder had put a strain on it, and the second had more than doubled that strain, but the events in the PlasHein Square had rendered it totally useless. Not only was there more work to be done, but much of it was completely new in character as senior officers flapped and floundered, trying to work out ‘procedures’ for the controlling of large crowds. They were holding meetings, forming committees, preparing reports, promising this, promising that, promising anything to quieten a plethora of equally ineffectual Heinders howling for action. One thing they were not doing was asking the opinions of those who might have some practical ideas about the matter, but that gave the proceedings an almost refreshing hint of normality.

  Added to all this was the fact that several of Skynner's men had been injured trying to cope with the stampede in the square, and all of them were still suffering after-effects in one form or another.

  Skynner looked at the paper in front of him. It was the latest offering from above about what was to be done today to deal with the crowd which was anticipated in the PlasHein Square. It required more than twice as many men as he had. He laid it to one side with a resigned sigh, and shook his head. He could not even begin to implement it, nor could he debate it with its author; by the time he appeared, the crowd would probably be gathering.

  Or, more likely, dispersing, he added as a sour after-thought.

  He looked at the list of men he had available. With men off through injury, and others moved to extra night duty to cover the warehouse area, he had precious few, and most of them were tired and dispirited.

  Still, that he could cope with. Getting his men motivated was something that he was good at. Skynner picked up a pen and, while his masters fumed and fretted, he sketched out a solution to the day's problem in a few minutes. Not an ideal one, by any means, but adequate.

  He would cope. His men would cope.

  * * * *

  Thus was the day faced, well-planned and ordered.

  * * * *

  Toom Drommel made his booming speech—finally hitting the octave, to the glee of that minority of listeners who set store by such things—and the Castellans, seriously divided amongst themselves and continuing to show the political ineptitude they had demonstrated throughout this affair, retreated from their position, or rather slithered over backwards to crash in total confusion.

  Drommel's face looked strained and drawn as his moment of triumph came and, in truth, he was finding it almost unbearably difficult not to laugh and jeer outright. A nervous twitching of his left foot was the sole outward expression of the dance he wanted to perform.

  Despite the stiffness in his jaw, he managed to make a formal demand, through the uproar, for the immediate dissolution of the Heindral. The leader of the Castellans gave an equally formal refusal, citing precedent, tradition and the general public good. Salvaging what he could of the débâcle, he managed to imbue his speech with a little surprised indignation that such a thing should even be considered, but all there knew that a train of events had been set in motion that must inevitably lead to an early Acclamation.

  There was great excitement.

  Inside his stony frame, Toom Drommel glowed as he saw his future unfolding before him like a great, golden sunrise.

  * * * *

  Vredech and Horld too, found themselves musing over what had been an unexpectedly successful day as they rode back together from the Witness House, though their mood was in marked contrast to the raucous pandemonium ringing through the rafters of the PlasHein. Neither took either credit for, or delight in, what had happened.

  Mueran had affected surprise when they had presented themselves, though in fact he was highly relieved. Gossip about Cassraw's latest venture had been reaching him from innumerable quarters and, despite the usual stately outward manner that he was maintaining, his indecision and reproach against an unkind destiny that had brought him such troubles had reduced him almost to panic just before they arrived.

  He had nodded sagely as they talked, tapped his fingers against his lips thoughtfully, frowned, sighed, shaken his head, given all the impressions of being totally in command of affairs. Then he had listened to their suggestions: Cassraw must be called before the Chapter as a matter of urgency, to receive due censure for his actions. For censure there must be now after the things he had said. Sadly, any accounting he might offer could only be in the nature of mitigation. By prior agreement both Horld and Vredech assiduously avoided any conjecture about ‘possession’ or any other possible cause of Cassraw's wild behaviour, save perhaps overwork.

  'This jeopardizes his holding of the Haven Parish, you know,’ Mueran had said.

  'He jeopardizes it, Brother,’ Vredech said powerfully, his sense of guilt making his voice strident. ‘Not we. There's plenty of freedom to hold differing views within the church, but he shouldn't speak thus. It's not as if it's a gentle touching on secular affairs—it's rabble-rousing politicking such as hasn't been seen even in the Heindral in a dozen generations, let alone the church. I can't think what he's trying to do, but he's master of his tongue and his wits as far as we know. Nothing compels him to behave like that, and he must bear the responsibility for it.'

  It was an argument that could not be gainsaid and Mueran, much calmer now that he had someone to shoulder the blame should the affair take an unexpected direction, had agreed to their proposed action. Notices would be sent out summoning an emergency meeting of the Chapter prior to the next Service Day. It was unlikely that all the Chapter Brothers would be able to attend, but there would be enough to ensure a fair hearing.

  'This is a wretched business,’ Horld said eventually, breaking the silence that had hung over them since they left the Witness House. ‘I know that what we've done is right, but ...’ He shook his head.

  Vredech had little consolation to offer. He used the argument that he had employed with Mueran. ‘It's none of our doing,
Horld. Cassraw behaving like that left us no alternative but to act. However badly we feel now, we'd be feeling far worse if we'd done nothing.'

  Horld nodded unhappily. ‘I think it's the element of deceit in our actions that's disturbing me.'

  Vredech looked at him, puzzled.

  'This business about Cassraw being possessed,’ Horld went on. ‘I've prayed all night in the hope of some guidance, but I'm none the wiser. I don't doubt the sincerity of your belief, Allyn, but I can't accept that Ahmral has taken human form to walk amongst us again. It goes against reason, commonsense—against all current theological thinking.'

  'Set the name aside,’ Vredech said. ‘It's not important. Have you any doubts about the nature of what touched you that day on the mountain? Or about the fact that you and I met and spoke together in the same ... dream?'

  Horld's face was pained, but he shook his head.

  'Then cling to your faith in those in silence,’ Vredech said. ‘All that we've raised with Mueran is what Cassraw's been saying—a matter that by now dozens of people can testify to. Plain, simple, everyday reality. Iron and coals. My feeling, and it's growing stronger by the day, is that some evil power—call it what you will—came in that cloud and took possession of Cassraw. Now, something far beyond our understanding of everyday reality is afoot. I'll have that always in my mind, but only to you and to Nertha will I speak of it.’ He turned and looked straight at Horld. ‘It may be that amongst your own thoughts about this, is one that says I'm raving mad myself.'

  Horld looked startled and shifted awkwardly in his saddle.

  'It's a fair enough assumption,’ Vredech went on, smiling slightly, ‘and I take no offence at it. But give me the right we've agreed to give Cassraw: judge me by my actions.'

  Horld stammered slightly as he spoke. ‘I wouldn't dream of judging you, Allyn,’ he said. ‘"Judge not, lest ye be condemned".'

  Vredech smiled at the embarrassment in Horld's voice as he resorted to quoting the Santyth. ‘"But by their deeds shall they be measured",’ he countered, quoting from the same Dominant Text. ‘I give you the right to judge me, Horld. No—I demand it!’ He tapped his head briskly. ‘I demand the rigour of your mind applied to the judgement of my actions, and to such of my thoughts as I reveal to you.'

  Horld was openly embarrassed now. ‘You sound like Nertha talking,’ he flustered. ‘With her logic and her interminable, probing questioning.'

  Vredech's smile turned into a laugh. ‘She's quieter than when you last seriously crossed swords with her,’ he said. ‘Different, too. I think perhaps she's found some answers after all.’ His manner became distant. ‘She's really a most admirable person.'

  Horld grunted and gave Vredech a long, curious look.

  Vredech abandoned his reverie and spoke earnestly. ‘You must do this, Horld,’ he said. ‘You're my shield against my own folly, as perhaps I am against yours. While we test one another, I doubt we'll do any malice.'

  Horld nodded.

  They did not speak again until they parted company at the foot of the mountain.

  * * * *

  After giving due credit to good fortune, Skynner, too, congratulated himself on a successful day. The public balconies in the PlasHein had been completely filled, but the crowd that had gathered in the square had been much smaller than the one three days previously, doubtless as a result of what had happened then. There were few women present and no children.

  When the result of the debate was made known, there was uproar amongst the Heinders, but the watching public had taken it comparatively quietly, seemingly more interested in watching the antics of their representatives in the hall below than encouraging any particularly partisan opinion now that a decision had been reached. Those people in the square dispersed quietly and in good order. With his limited resources, Skynner had made no attempt to marshal the crowd, but had concentrated on identifying any individuals who looked likely to cause trouble, and quietly removed them. There were remarkably few—a point which reinforced Skynner's strengthening opinion that the previous incident had been deliberately engineered, though for what purpose and by whom, he had not had the time to ponder quietly.

  And he laid the questions aside once again. Many other voices would have their say about what had happened, in due course, though the Special Assize which had been promised would inevitably be some time away now, with all the current political upheaval. He would continue to interrogate the youths who had been arrested on the day, but he held out little hope of clarification there; they were a mindless lot, and if they were involved at all then it was purely as the unwitting agents of others.

  He leaned on the heavy stone surround to the doorway of the Keeperage, and looked up and down the street. Not a bad day, he thought, as he watched the late afternoon traffic pursuing its usual business. In so far as they ever would after the tragedy in the square, things were getting back to normal. He might perhaps get a decent night's sleep tonight.

  * * * *

  Thus the day passed for the people of Troidmallos: planned, ordered and for many, successful. Things were, indeed, getting back to normal.

  * * * *

  As Skynner turned to go back into the building, a movement caught his eye. A single movement out of all the bustle that filled the street, yet even as he searched to identify it more clearly, the instinct that years of experience had given him was telling him unequivocally that his self-congratulation was premature and that his night's rest was far from assured. As the movement became clearer, so this instinct began to raise deep alarms in him, for even though the approaching figure was still a long way away, it seemed that he could see its mouth gaping and its eyes staring wide with awful shock.

  So vivid was this impression that he had walked down the steps to the Keeperage and was moving towards the doom-laden messenger long before the man finally arrived. He was a junior Keeper, scarcely out of his training, and he was white-faced and gasping for breath. Skynner took his arm firmly and, without speaking, marched him out of the public gaze into the Keeperage.

  'Calm down, Kerna,’ he said sternly when they were inside, experience this time giving him a patience that he did not really feel. ‘Just breathe easy and tell me what's happened, slowly.'

  Somewhat to his surprise, the Keeper took a deep, steadying breath and straightened up. The abrupt recovery heightened Skynner's alarm. Something really serious had happened.

  'Another murder,’ the man said, pointing. ‘In the warehouse area again.'

  Skynner's heart sank. But there was more, he could tell.

  'Albor's dead, as well.'

  Even as the meaning of the words reached him, Skynner heard himself giving the news to Albor's mother. Struggling to set the thought aside, he felt a myriad tiny clamps suddenly tightening all over his body, holding his hands, his arms, everything, rigid, setting his face, channelling his thoughts, as if any movement, any digression, however slight, would shatter the control over himself and his men, that he would need now.

  He asked a series of simple, terse questions: ‘Where? Who's there? Who else knows?’ He forbore to ask, ‘How?’ He would find out soon enough anyway and to ask now would be to cause delay. Within minutes he was on horseback, trotting through the sunlit streets as quickly as the busy citizens would allow, his control still icy and pervading both his horse and Kerna, riding behind him.

  A small crowd of men was gathered at the entrance to the alley when he reached his destination. They looked round at the sound of his approach, then parted to let him through. He stared down at them. ‘Unless you've anything to say about how this happened, go back to your work right away, gentlemen,’ he said. Though his voice was quiet, there was a quality in it that dispersed the group almost immediately.

  Skynner paused for a moment. The alley was very narrow and received little light from the blue strip of sky overhead. It was also littered with rubbish. Some way along stood a group of three Keepers. A man was sat huddled near to them, leaning on the wall.


  As he wended a careful way towards them, Skynner felt as though he were moving back through time. This was the third occasion he had made such a walk, with lowering walls hemming him in and a circle of uncertain Keepers waiting to greet him. For an agonizing moment, his control slipped and he was flooded with the fear that he would be walking thus for ever, nearing but never reaching, yet always seeing, torn body after torn body, an inevitable and somehow necessary witness to the fulfilment of some great and insatiable need.

  He clenched his teeth so tightly that they cracked painfully and he was himself again, facing what had to be faced, doing what had to be done. He stepped around a pool of fresh vomit to be greeted by a fellow Serjeant, a man some years his junior who was also struggling to keep command of himself. ‘Young Kerna, I'm afraid,’ he said. ‘Not that I can blame him. This one's even worse than the others.'

  'Where's Albor, Stiel?’ Skynner asked bluntly.

  Stiel pointed unsteadily to a shape that was almost indistinguishable from the rubbish cluttering the ground. Skynner walked over and squatted beside it. He reached out to pull back the cloak that had been thrown over the body then hesitated, a flicker of anxiety passing over his face.

  'As far as I can tell, his neck's been broken,’ Stiel said. ‘He's not been ... cut up. Whoever did it had apparently had enough ... exercise ... with the other one. He's really bad. It looks as though there's bits been ripped right out of him. There's ...'

  'All right!’ Skynner said sharply, raising a hand to cut off the description. ‘All in good time.'

  Bracing himself, he pulled back the cloak and looked at his dead friend and colleague. As he took in the familiar face, now pale and empty, and the unnaturally crooked head, a terrible anger and pain filled him. He crushed them both ruthlessly. They would serve him best as a fire in which to temper his resolve, rather than a great flaring of empty words.