Whistler [A sequel to The Chronicles of Hawklan]

by Roger Taylor

  Vredech shivered at this cruel analysis.

  'And where does that leave us?’ he asked. ‘You and me? The people who know.'

  Nertha looked at him for a long time. ‘Other than being desperately afraid of what's going to happen and the speed of what's actually happening, I don't know.’ She did not carry helplessness well.

  'Yes,’ Vredech whispered very softly. Then he stood up and walked over to a sideboard. He opened a drawer and after a clumsy search in the comparative darkness, found what he was looking for. He returned to Nertha and gave it to her.

  'I've a small medical problem I'd like your help with,’ he said.

  'It's Father's militia knife,’ she said, smiling as she recognized it. She took the knife from its sheath and tested the edge. ‘Good as ever. He'd shave with this sometimes just to show off and give us all a fright, do you remember?’ Her smile faded and she looked at Vredech anxiously. ‘What do you mean, a small medical problem? And what have you got this out for?'

  Vredech glanced at Yan-Elter and Iryn, then took the knife from Nertha's unresisting hand. He spoke softly but very deliberately. ‘I'm as responsible for those deaths at Bredill as that lad over there. I'm going to take some advice I was given a little time ago but which in my priestly wisdom I chose to ignore. I'll listen to yours, however, and follow it carefully.'

  He looked down at the knife, its blade glinting in the firelight. ‘I need to know, Physician, the quickest and most effective way of using this to kill Cassraw.'

  * * *

  Chapter 34

  It was raining again the following day, a fine vertical drizzle that soaked only a little more slowly than a summer downpour. Grey clouds descended to obscure the mountain tops and to sustain the soft mists that were greying everything else.

  But for all the dampness in the air, Troidmallos was alive with activity. Privv's Sheets were everywhere, proclaiming the Chosen One, waxing rapturously about the miracle that had been shown to the assembled throng on the Ervrin Mallos, announcing the call for the levying of the militia, and eulogizing both Mueran and Marash as martyrs to the new Canol Madreth that was imminent, and that was to be the heart of a united Gyronlandt. They even risked suggesting that, in the wake of the Chosen One, there might be the Second Coming of Ishryth himself.

  'I don't think there's anything even in the wilder reaches of the Santyth about that,’ Leck offered tentatively when Privv, riding high on creative hyperbole, had mooted this. She stretched herself. Privv pondered long and hard about her observation, this being so serious a matter, but by the time Leck had finished stretching, he had decided to include it. It was, after all, quite consistent with his normal policy of never allowing facts to stand in the way of his deathless prose.

  Needless to say, Privv himself had not actually been present at Cassraw's service—there were limits even to his sense of duty towards seeking out the truth, and climbing the Ervrin Mallos was one. Besides, the mounting burdens of his vocation were leaving him ever more exhausted.

  In addition to his rhetoric about Cassraw, he also inveighed against the weakness and confusion in the Heindral, and made strident demands for strong and resolute leadership. Untypically, he had allowed Toom Drommel to assist him with that. Drommel had an excellent range of determined adjectives.

  The whole, of course, had passed Cassraw's scrutiny and been found good.

  The Sheets fed acid into the streams of gossip that were corroding the town. Where there had been indifference, the Sheets turned it into concern, where concern, fear—and where fear, near panic.

  Not that everyone was in agreement with the way in which developing events should be handled, but following the Felden invasion and the Battle of Bredill, none could gainsay the need to levy the militia, and under this unanimity there developed an insidious reluctance to raise any voice in dissent.

  Throughout Troidmallos and its immediate neighbours, such individuals who had not already been galvanized by the mounting tension were now drawn in. Few darkened corners escaped scrutiny in the search for long-forgotten weaponry and equipment. Fletchers and bowyers were suddenly inundated with work, as were blacksmiths and all other tradesmen whose goods were to be found listed in the Annex to the Militia Statute.

  Not that these activities carried any frisson of excitement or celebration. As the dark clouds had infected Cassraw, so now his actions spread a subtler darkness. The atmosphere pervading the town was one of fear. And growing out of the fear, vigorous and strong, came unreason and mindless anger. Skynner was obliged to redeploy many of his men to guard the premises of companies who traded with Tirfelden, as the dregs of Madren society began to cling together and rise to the surface, their ignorance and general ineptitude re-forged into raucous self-righteousness. Such Keepers as were not involved in the consequences of this sudden awakening of social conscience were occupied in dealing with innumerable domestic squabbles and public altercations—not least in the premises of the tradesmen who found themselves so suddenly in demand.

  Though harassed, however, Skynner was almost relieved at this activity as it kept his mind from dwelling on the implications of his meeting with the Chief and Toom Drommel. He was uncertain which boded the worst: their assumption that they could use Cassraw to play some game of their own, or their actually believing in him. Not that he could keep such thoughts at bay all the time, and whenever they returned to him, he found himself glancing up towards the summit of the Ervrin Mallos. It was shrouded in mist, but he sensed that had he been able to see it, the strange haze that had grown there and then had briefly faded, would be present again, probably more pronounced than ever. For the first time in many years he began to get stomach-ache.

  Thoughts of Albor, too, would emerge unexpectedly in the middle of the day's turmoil. These disturbed him even more than his concerns about the Chief and his intentions, and were less easily set aside, there being so many small reminders of his friend and colleague about the Keeperage. And with the memories of Albor came thoughts about the murderer. Grim, fearful thoughts, like a deep, unheard note underlying the cacophony of all that was happening around him. That many more innocent people now fretting through their ordinary lives might be within weeks, perhaps even days, of death, when they might reasonably have expected years, did not lessen his anger and frustration at these random murders. It unsettled him profoundly that all his experience and his knowledge of Troidmallos and its people had yielded nothing in his investigations. Somewhere, possibly with an accomplice, a monstrous creature wearing the appearance of an ordinary person was still walking the town.

  Walking, watching, waiting, for the opportunity to kill again.

  And he, Serjeant Keeper, guardian of the law and the people, was lost and floundering. He could do nothing—except fail in his most fundamental duty—doomed to await the next killing and hope that something, someone, might be seen, or some clue be left to which he could cling and which might bring him to the killer. All he had learned so far was that the murderer was physically powerful. He must be, to have defeated Albor man to man...

  And before his thoughts could begin to circle fruitlessly, Skynner would turn again to the more pressing needs of the day.

  * * * *

  Vredech wrapped his cloak about him. It was sodden, but it was still keeping the rain from him. After spending the remainder of the night sleeping fitfully in his chair, he had risen silently at dawn and managed to leave the Meeting House without disturbing anyone. He needed to be alone and to think.

  Nertha had greeted the declaration of his intention to kill Cassraw with a confusion of emotions, not the least of which had been disbelief. They had conducted a bizarre, whispered dispute for fear of waking the dozing Yan-Elter. As the seriousness of Vredech's intention eventually emerged, Nertha had fallen silent and stared at him intently, her eyes searching his face.

  'I'm no more mad than I was before,’ Vredech said, reading her look. ‘You're the logical one. Find me an alternative.'

  'It's not a
matter of logic,’ Nertha said.

  Once, such an admission would have given Vredech the opportunity for an ironic rejoinder, but his mood could admit no humour.

  'Isn't it?’ he said coldly. ‘I could pray, I suppose.’ Nertha looked distressed at the cynicism in his voice, but Vredech went on. ‘Oddly enough, my prayers mean more now than they've ever meant. After thinking I'd lost you the other day, and then finding you and standing by you, looking out across the valleys—so beautiful—I think I understand Ishrythan more than ever before. My faith seems to be changing. I don't seem to need Ishryth Himself so much. It's strange. Cassraw says his ... mentor ... reveals the inner truths of the Santyth to him. Well, I think I've found them for myself. I suppose I should be grateful for that.’ He paused, as his thoughts swung back to matters practical. ‘But more than ever I know that what part of our destiny lies in our hands, we are responsible for, completely.’ Nertha tried to intervene, but he silenced her. ‘You and I have been shown what's happening. And Horld—maybe even Skynner. They will do what they must do, in their own judgements. And I will do what I must do in mine. I'll be able to get close to him ...'

  Nertha burst in. ‘Allyn, stop talking like that, you're frightening me. You're no more a murderer than I am—still less an assassin. You're physically incapable of killing anyone. You killed a bird with a catapult once then cried yourself to sleep for two nights. Do you think you can kill Cassraw, an old friend, whom you've known all your life, even allowing for what he's turned into?’ Then something seemed to snap inside her and she almost snarled. ‘And you don't know what you're talking about, for mercy's sake. Look!’ Before Vredech could prevent her, she had snatched the knife from him, unsheathed it and, thrusting the handle into his hand, drawn it towards herself so that the point was almost touching her throat. ‘Here's where you'd do it. Like this,’ she said savagely, showing him. ‘You're right. You'd probably be able to get near enough to him to do it, but could you push this blade in?’ She drew it nearer to her throat, forcing Vredech to pull back in alarm. ‘And if you do, shall I tell you what'll happen?’ Vredech stared at her, wide-eyed. ‘It won't be like cutting yourself shaving. There'll be blood spouting everywhere as his heart bursts itself trying to stop the wound, from here to that wall—and splattering across it. And there'll be noises that'll ring in your ears for ever. Not to mention the look on his face.’ She held his gaze fiercely for a long moment, then her hands went suddenly limp. The knife slipped out of Vredech's grip and fell with a thud to the floor.

  'Are you all right?’ Yan-Elter's sleepy voice made them both start.

  Nertha recovered first. ‘Yes,’ she said hoarsely. ‘How's Iryn?'

  'He seems quieter.'

  'Good. Go back to sleep. We've done everything we can for him. We'll have to see what the morning brings.'

  Yan-Elter nodded and drifted off to sleep again. Vredech picked up the knife. His hands were shaking.

  'Promise me you won't do anything foolish,’ Nertha said, taking his arm. She was not sobbing, but tears were running down her face. ‘There's another way somewhere.’ Vredech made to stand up but her grip was too strong. ‘Promise!’ she demanded. ‘We'll think of something if we give it a little time.'

  'Time?’ Vredech exclaimed. He brought his face close to hers. ‘It's scarcely ten days since Cassraw's first sermon, Nertha. Ten days! It feels as though it were some other age, but ...’ He was going to mention the Whistler's remarks about events moving with great speed but he stopped himself. ‘We probably don't have any time left. Who can say what'll have happened in another ten days?'

  Nertha just said simply, ‘Promise me you'll do nothing foolish.'

  Vredech looked at her thoughtfully, then nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said, pushing the knife into his belt. ‘I'll do nothing foolish.'

  Nor will I, he thought, as the murmured but frantic debate returned to him yet again. He was shivering. Not with the dampness of the day which, oddly enough, he welcomed; the obliteration of the mountains and the greying of all else seemed to leave his mind free to roam unhindered by things familiar. He was shivering because he was afraid. He would do nothing foolish, true, he had promised. But killing Cassraw was not an act of folly, it was one of wisdom and necessity. People had died already because of his neglect, though he took some solace in the knowledge that he could not possibly have followed the Whistler's advice when it had first been given to him. That certainly would not have been rational. But now? Although, as he had said, only a few days had passed since Cassraw's first demented sermon, it was indeed a different age now. So very different. For a moment, Vredech began again to doubt the reality of all that was happening. After all, had he not been drawn into a world that was still Canol Madreth when he had met Horld on the mountain? Perhaps somewhere he was walking through a rain-shrouded park in a world where he could return to his Meeting House to sit in its comforting warmth and talk with Nertha and look to a future that was once again knowable—a world in which Cassraw was his old friendly, obstinate and argumentative self, untainted by whatever had lured him into the darkness.

  The idea brought a lump to Vredech's throat and tears to his eyes but he pushed them away. There was no alternative but to do what he was going to do.

  Nertha's savage exposition about how to use the knife had been cruelly effective, deeply unmanning him, and the images she had conjured kept returning to taunt him. But he was no longer the child who had cried himself to sleep for the gratuitous slaying of a bird. The killing of Cassraw might perhaps cost him his sanity, maybe even his life, but he had been shown, or had imagined, it mattered not, the ravages that would come to countless thousands if Cassraw's dark and primitive view of Ishrythan were to spread. Reality might well be underlain by beauty and simplicity, but in its workings, in the weaving of this simplicity, it was complex and subtle, full of shifting needs and decisions that required continuously the skills of Ishryth's second greatest gift, the mind, to judge any course of action. No book, not even the Santyth, for all the wisdom it contained, could hold such knowledge. Still less, could one man. And any man who claimed such knowledge and would seek to impose it, seek to constrain the incalculable spirit of a people into the suffocating limits of his own ignorance and fear, could bring only destruction.

  As he was already doing.

  Vredech sat down on a bench beneath a broad canopied tree. The bench and the grass about him were still dry. He was calmer now. His thoughts had run so many courses so often that they had finally fallen silent. He reached inside his cloak and laid his hand on the knife.

  What are you doing, Priest, even thinking of taking life? he asked himself again. But the question no longer meant anything. Nor did he listen to Nertha's plea that some other way could be found. Instead he clung to Iryn's nightmare. He was prepared to take that upon himself if it saved others having to suffer it. That was a priestly duty. It was not avoidable.

  And now he must await events. Confine himself to simple practical matters, such as where he might find Cassraw. Would he be at the Haven Meeting House, or was he already assuming his role of Covenant Member and establishing himself at the Witness House?

  All he had to do was ask.

  But he'd sit here a little longer, in the grey stillness. Think about the sunset he had seen from the hillside with the Whistler playing his meandering flute, and the view across the valleys as he had stood by Nertha.

  Appreciate what you have while you have it, then the pain of parting from it would be less.

  It was true.

  But still he did not want to part from it, nor confront the pain of what he had to do.

  His concerns slowly left him as he looked at the shadows of the trees in the misting rain and listened to the steady hiss of its fall and the occasional spluttering rattle as a solitary drop would cause a leaf to shed its tiny load on to the leaves below, and thence to more leaves until finally a cascade of many drops splashed to the ground.

  He leaned back against the tree. As he did so,
he noticed a movement in the distance. It took him a moment to bring two figures into focus.

  They were walking slowly towards him.

  * * *

  Chapter 35

  Vredech felt a small twinge of irritation at this disturbance of his contemplation. Still, he thought, they'll probably pass on their way. It was unlikely that anyone would be abroad today other than on some necessary errand. He watched them idly. Both were cloaked and hooded. One, he judged, was about his height and build, while the other was a little shorter but more heavily built.

  As they drew nearer, it seemed that they would indeed walk past, but one of them glanced casually at him then stopped and held out a hand to detain his partner. There was a brief conversation then they walked directly towards him. Vredech's irritation increased but he managed to keep it from his face.

  'Good day,’ the shorter one said courteously. Vredech noted the speaker's foreign accent with surprise.

  'Good day,’ he replied automatically, standing up.

  The stranger bowed slightly. ‘Please forgive me for accosting you like this,’ he said, ‘but I notice from your dress that you are a priest in the local religion.'

  Local religion! Vredech felt mildly demeaned, but he replied that yes, he was.

  The stranger held out his hand. ‘My name is Darke.’ He emphasized the last syllable. ‘And this is my friend Tirec. We're travellers ... scholars. May we talk to you, or are we disturbing you?'

  The man's gentle assuredness transformed the remainder of Vredech's annoyance into self-reproach. He ventured a small joke by way of reparation. ‘Not at all,’ he smiled, extending his hand towards the bench. ‘Please join me in my office.’ For a little while at least, he would be able to put aside thoughts about what he had to do. He introduced himself. On hearing his name, Darke looked pleasantly surprised.