by Roger Taylor
* * * *
When a great branch is lopped from a tree, be it by man or nature, no part escapes the consequences. The weight of the remaining branches leans unbalanced and reaches down the trunk and into even the smallest hair roots. Some are bent and crushed, unable to carry their new burden, while others are stretched skyward and torn from the earth to perish. If the branch lost is large enough, the whole tree may topple almost immediately but, even if it stands, it is irrecoverably weakened. The very wound exposes the tree to the ravages of disease and predation, while the strained roots will be further damaged with each small gust of wind and fall of rain.
So it was with Fyorlund when its King suspended the Geadrol. With one stroke he severed a huge and proud limb and rocked a nation whose well-rooted stability had sustained it for countless generations. There was not one aspect of Fyordyn life that did not in some degree feel this terrible impact.
Quiet, homely people by their firesides, sharp-eyed street traders, artisans and craftsmen, farm labourers out in the countryside, servants, masters, rogues and vagabonds, all the people to whom the Geadrol and the King were distant, remote, irrelevant almost, found themselves affected in some way as the great tree rocked to find a new equilibrium, and fought to heal its wound.
The country creaked with rumour and uncertainty. Dan-Tor sank his knowledge and long-formed plans into the damaged tissues and fought off healing agents and other predators alike. The fear and uncertainty amongst the Lords and the high officials of the Geadrol and Palace leached down corrosively into the populace at large and further undermined the old stability. Dan-Tor used his Mathidrin to prod and stir where the old order seemed likely to re-establish itself, and they quoted his name and the good of the State rather than the Law, when going about his work, to further erode the worth of the old ways in the people’s eyes. But his greatest weapons were doubt and distrust.
Clear vision is derived from knowledge and openness, and with clear vision Dan-Tor would be seen for what he was. Rumours of treachery and traitors, of enemies without and within, were carefully circulated and sustained, and gradually the Fyordyn lowered their gaze, and began looking at one another furtively and suspiciously. Dan-Tor smiled as he watched his prey mill around in increasingly blind confusion and as he offered his sympathetic embrace to those who turned to him in their desperation.
His way forward was by no means clear or smooth, however; opposition seemed to spring up spontaneously. But, nonetheless, it opened up before him inexorably and, with each step, his strength grew and that of his opponents diminished. He took satisfaction but little joy in what he was doing. This dabbling with the intricate trivia of human society irked him, and the demon bubbling below the surface was never far away, rising to taunt him. ‘This game’s too long, too slow. Sweep these opponents away, they’re but insects in your path. Bind the rest with the Old Power and raise your hands in glorious salute to the Master. Let the New Age begin now.’
He let it have its say, but rarely listened. It was the rambling of the remains of his weak and inconsistent human nature.
‘It was your impatience that helped bind me in the darkness for long aeons,’ he replied. ‘You’ll not betray me again.’ But the demon soothed him with its reminder of his great power and he knew its very presence indicated that the end of the path was much nearer.
Occasionally, however, he would walk the Palace battlements, staring darkly out over the City, and wonder if one of the scurrying dots below him was Hawklan, or if one of the countless rooftops was sheltering him. Then his gaze would wander out to the countryside and the mountains, and his flesh would crawl at the sight of the many hiding places that were available to the man.
You are coming to me, Hawklan, I can feel it, he would think, and then abruptly he would teeter away from the fear into a solid confidence. His spies were growing in number. It was only a matter of time before that green-eyed abomination was reported to him. Then here, in his own lair, he would lay such traps as none could avoid. ‘I’ll bind you silent and unknowing. There’ll be no Cadwanol to help you, or incompetent youths to thwart me with their folly. When you open your eyes, you’ll gaze into those of my Master – your Master.’ He shuddered at the prospect. ‘He has arts now that you can’t dream of. He grows stronger daily. Whoever you are, He’ll bind you to His service, and you’ll be happy to be so bound.’
But these occasions were rare. For the greater part of his time he steered diligently through the troublesome waves that he himself was stirring. Vakloss was full of Lords clamouring to see him about Eldric and the others. He would delay meeting any of them for as long as possible, and then would have them called in individually and unexpectedly.
The escort for the favoured Lord would be Mathidrin; polite but stone-faced. They would lead him through unfamiliar passages whose spartan and militaristic appearance were echoed by the room where he would encounter Dan-Tor. The King’s physician would be effusive in his greeting and profuse in his apologies for both the delay and then the suddenness of the appointment. ‘The burdens of state impose these discourtesies on me, Lord. I’m afraid the niceties of protocol tend to be roughly used by these troublesome times,’ he would say, or some similar palliative. He would also show noticeable signs of strain and concern. The Mathidrin escort would stand close ranked behind the Lord’s chair until dismissed by a reassuring gesture. This man is not one of our enemies, he is to be trusted, it would say conspicuously.
By seeing the Lords individually, Dan-Tor was able to consolidate the many rumours he was having spread about the City. He would ensure that the tale he told to each would differ in some detail, and always there would be a point at which he would lean forward and, calling the Lord by his first name, would say, ‘I tell you this for yourself alone, because I know you’re to be trusted . . .’ Or give some other indication of a special relationship between them.
These tactics sowed subtle divisions between the Lords and heightened their growing sense of mutual distrust. The movement for the release of the four Lords and the re-establishment of the Geadrol gradually slowed down.
* * * *
Accompanying the Lords in Vakloss were many of their High Guards. Etron was one such. A country lad who had recently finished his training with the cadets, he took an innocent pride in strolling through the streets of the City when he was not on duty, pleasantly aware of the quiet stir his elegant uniform caused. Had not his troop, after all, won the Grand Tournament only last year? And had they not received the praise of Lord Dan-Tor personally for their splendid turnout? Apart from one or two grim comments from the older officers about the Watch, the old Narsindal patrols, and how they should be brought back again, he had come to the conclusion that life in the High Guards was both enjoyable and civilized.
One evening he was strolling through the narrow crowded streets near the Palace debating where he might best eat that night, when the sound of raised angry voices reached him, one, a woman’s. Curious, he ran towards a small crowd that appeared to be the source of the noise.
A girl, a street trader, was arguing with a Mathidrin trooper. She spoke rapidly and with a strong Vakloss accent, and Etron had some difficulty in understanding her, but it seemed the Mathidrin was accusing her of selling bad fruit and was refusing to pay. Etron saw the Mathidrin was of an age similar to himself, as were his two companions who were laughing nearby.
For a moment he was inclined to intervene, but then thought better of it. Standing orders were to avoid the Mathidrin where possible, and this young man seemed to represent the Mathidrin at their worst: loutish, arrogant and sneering. Etron was about to turn away when the Mathidrin’s expression changed at some remark and he knocked the girl to the ground with a savage punch in the face. The watching crowd widened suddenly. One man protested, but the Mathidrin turned on him fiercely and held his clenched fist under the man’s nose.
‘I know you,’ he said menacingly. ‘You shouldn’t go around speaking up for liars and cheats like this.’
The girl was clambering to her feet, sobbing and bleeding profusely from her nose and mouth. She staggered against the Mathidrin and coughed up a gout of blood and saliva. It splattered on to the trooper’s chest and Etron winced as he noticed a white tooth sliding down the black tunic. The man swore and pushed her away violently, sending her sprawling again. Then he turned his attention back to the protester.
‘You’d better look to your own affairs. Especially with that nice little shop of yours only just around the corner. I’ve seen some very suspicious people going in and out of there. Very suspicious.’ He looked significantly at his friends who nodded in confirmation.
The man paled a little and his jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The Mathidrin, however, was not inclined to let the matter drop. Bending down, he took hold of the girl’s hair and, staring into the man’s face, said, ‘This is a liar and a cheat. Shall I show you what we do to liars and cheats?’
The shopkeeper stared at him icily, frightened to do anything that might bring retribution on himself or make things worse for the girl.
‘We do this,’ continued the Mathidrin. And, dragging the girl by her hair, he pushed her face brutally into a box of soft fruits standing in front of her stall, much to the amusement of his two friends.
Almost in spite of himself, Etron pushed through the crowd and seized the Mathidrin’s arm.
‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s enough. That’s no way to behave. If she’s cheated you there’s . . .’ He stopped in mid-sentence as the Mathidrin turned slowly to look first at his gripped arm and then at him. Etron released the arm nervously. An unpleasant smile appeared on the Mathidrin’s face as he looked up and down Etron’s uniform, vivid and ornate compared with his own black tunic.
‘There’s what, flower?’ he said coaxingly.
Etron cleared his throat. He wanted to be somewhere else at that moment, but could not walk away. He wished an officer would appear round the corner. ‘Let the girl go,’ he said. ‘There’s the Law or the Chief of Markets if you’ve a complaint.’ The Mathidrin looked at him in disbelief, and then at his friends, who were smirking. ‘Petal here wants us to run and tell tales,’ he said. ‘Petal doesn’t think we can handle our own problems, does it?’ And he pinched Etron’s cheek between his thumb and forefinger. Angry at the humiliation, Etron struck the hand away. The Mathidrin sneered, showing his teeth, and with a great push sent Etron staggering into the remains of the girl’s fruit stall. ‘Down where you belong, flower,’ he jeered. ‘With the rest of the fruit.’
Though a High Guard, Etron was not really a fighting man, and certainly not a street brawler, but the tone of the insult and the damage to his uniform was too much. Scrambling to his feet, he flew furiously at the taunting black figure.
For a while, the two wrestled incongruously until they skidded on the slippery ground and crashed to the floor. Somewhat to his surprise, Etron recovered himself first and, standing up, seized his opponent by the scruff of the neck and thrust his face into the same box that the girl had been pushed into. ‘See what it feels like, you cockroach,’ he said through clenched teeth.
There was some applause and cheering from the crowd.
The Mathidrin got slowly to his feet, his face fruit-splattered and ridiculous. He put his hand on Etron’s shoulder, as if for balance, and then hit him in the stomach. It was a stunning and unexpected blow – and worse. Etron realized that more than the wind had gone out of him. Everywhere suddenly felt strange and distant, and his legs wouldn’t respond properly. They wouldn’t even hold him up. There was a roaring in his ears and, as he slithered to the ground and rolled on to his back, his eye lighted on a brightly painted carved eagle looking down at him from the pinnacle of a nearby building. It was framed in a ring of concerned faces.
Daddy used to carve ridge birds, he thought, and then the roaring overwhelmed him in blackness.
The Mathidrin, pale and nervously defiant, leaned forward and taking hold of Etron’s tunic wiped the blood from his dagger. It was an act more repellent in its callousness than the stabbing itself. The crowd seemed to be paralysed. He looked coldly at each one of them in turn as if memorizing their faces. ‘Go home all of you,’ he said. ‘This man attacked me and I had to defend myself. Don’t forget that.’
Etron’s Lord, a simple unaffected man, was beside himself with rage and grief and a shocked Dan-Tor promised him a full investigation. But no reliable witnesses could be found, and the Mathidrin, self-assured and smug, left the Inquiry to the congratulations of his companions. The older officers of Etron’s troop looked at their Lord and saw him impotent and livid. They took the wish in his eyes for their orders.
There was a great deal of rivalry between the High Guards of the different Lords, but not sufficient to divide them against a common foe, and the next few days saw several discreet and cautious meetings in the deep shadows provided by the bright glare of Dan-Tor’s globes hovering over the City.
A week after the incident, the Mathidrin trooper was found dead in a park some way away from the Palace. He had a sword in his hand, a wreath of flowers around his neck and a rotting fruit in his gaping mouth. From the footprints in the grass it seemed that the young man had been fighting a duel. Dan-Tor noted that aspect of the incident and smiled to himself. So you’re not quite up to cold-blooded murder yet, are you, you precious guardians of the Lords? But it’s a good start. Then, turning to a servant, he said, ‘Have Commander Urssain come to me immediately.’
Chapter 30
Sylvriss had made her main concern the locating of the four imprisoned Lords. Contact with them would, she believed, form an important strand in the rope she was weaving to trip, if not to strangle, Dan-Tor.
The Palace had cells suitable only for the temporary detention of offenders, and she found very quickly that they were not being kept in any of these. Dilrap was not able to help a great deal.
‘They’re being kept exclusively by the Mathidrin, Majesty,’ he told her. ‘Probably somewhere over in the Westerclave, but nobody seems to know where. And I have to be diffident in my inquiries.’
‘I understand, Dilrap,’ said Sylvriss. ‘Don’t jeopardize yourself for this. Your other tasks are more important. However, I can’t see our precious Mathidrin cooking and washing for the Lords. Can you find out which servants are working over there? And can we put our own in?’
Dilrap hitched his errant robe on to his shoulders and nodded. ‘It might be possible, Majesty,’ he said. ‘At least to find out which servants are in the Westerclave. The Keeper of the Rooms is a bit peculiar about his schedules, but I’m known to be close enough to Dan-Tor now to say it’s a spot check ordered personally by the Lord.’ He nodded to himself. ‘I can always smooth any furrows with a little high praise and a promise that a good report would be made. But as for putting one of our own in there . . .?’ Dilrap puffed out his cheeks.
Sylvriss stared at the door for a little while when he had left. He was proving to be a staunch and capable ally, ferreting out information for her and spending hours preparing long and opaque legal arguments to litter Dan-Tor’s path while ostensibly clearing it.
But if Dan-Tor began to suspect, what then? Dilrap would be no match for the man and her own part in the proceedings would surely come to light. Then she too would be assailed in some way, and the effort she was now able to put into thwarting her enemy would almost certainly be taken up fully in protecting herself and her treatment of the King. She must not overburden Dilrap.
She sighed, and, eyes closed, allowed herself a brief indulgence, taking her mind back to quieter, simpler times.
Once, such an action would have distressed and torn her with longing, but she had come to accept that, whatever the present and future held, the past was inviolate. It could not be relived, but equally it could not be destroyed. It would remain a solid and sure foundation to support her at all times, and its rich memories would continue to sustain the slow recovery of her husband.
R
ested, she opened her eyes to the harsher present. The Westerclave, she thought. Dilrap’s findings confirmed what her other informants had told her. But no one could tell her further. She fidgeted restlessly on the soft upholstered seat as if it had been made of stone. These same informants had also been bringing strange and worrying rumours: the Lords had attempted to escape; they were being poisoned; they were being starved; they had confessed their guilt; and many others, but all too vague and insubstantial. Bubbles from the depths of a dark pool.
She had tried approaching Dan-Tor directly, casually asking after the welfare of the Lords during a lull in a public function they were obliged to attend, but he had merely given her an uninformative answer and then deftly changed the subject. The incident reminded her clearly that she could not hope to lure careless admissions from such a man, and that to attempt to do so might well prove dangerous.
Abruptly, she made a decision. Her informants could obtain little more, if anything. She could not ask more of Dilrap. Now, perhaps a little blundering might not go amiss, she thought.
Within minutes she was mounted on her favourite horse and trotting around the Palace grounds. It was her normal habit to ride almost daily and was unlikely to attract any special comment. On the way to one of the side gates that would lead her into the City and thence to one of the great parks, she passed the wide stone-arched maw of the Westerclave.
The weather was overcast, a mottled grey sky promising no sign of sun that day. But even in the brightest sunshine,, the Westerclave had a gloomy aspect. A strange jumbled building joining two of the Palace towers, it was backed by a huge earth mound and looked as if it had once been built into the side of a hill. Situated where it was, it lay in almost permanent shadow.
That it was older than the rest of the Palace was obvious even to an untutored eye. Its stonework was weathered and crumbling, and lichen and ivy disfigured where they should have enhanced. Also its style of construction was markedly different, harsher and more brutal in its demands of the stone that formed it. Sylvriss always thought it like a rotten tooth wedged into a healthy jaw, an image in which its gaping entrance became a manifestation of decay.