by Tom Lloyd
He shouldn’t have worn it -half of the men here would take it as an insult -yet he had nothing else. Five years’ exile up a mountain didn’t do much for a man’s wardrobe. Jachen ran his hand through his chestnut hair, tugging at the tangles. The cheap soap at his lodgings had not helped much in making him look something approaching presentable. He couldn’t really afford private lodgings, but the alternative was the barracks here at the palace, and he didn’t think that would be wise.
Following the servant’s directions, he found himself standing before an unassuming door. He had enough sense of direction to recognise that he’d been sent around the back of the Tower of Semar, the remotest part of the palace; it appeared he was being kept out of everyone’s way while he waited for Swordmaster Kerin’s summons. After the hostile faces in the Great Hall he could see the sense in that.
Jachen sighed. ‘What am I doing here?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Has Kerin found a new way he can punish me?’
Once they’d seen great potential in him; the Swordmaster himself had recommended his promotion. Personally, Jachen had never been so sure.
He opened the door and stepped inside, sniffing dust and polish, antique wood and lamp oil, the faint mustiness of a room regularly aired but not lived in. It reminded him of the Temple of Amavoq, where he’d gone to pray and consider his choices before being transferred to the rangers -not that there had been much of a choice, in truth, but Jachen had never been one to take the easy road. Obstinacy and stupidity tended to get in the way.
Shutting the door behind him, Jachen hesitated. A single slit window far above head height on the opposite wall cast a shaft of light to the centre of the room, illuminating tall mahogany pews that were so dark they could have served in Death’s temples. They also lined the walls on his left and right. On the far side was a massive oak table with a carved top, under which the wood curved inwards and down to thick root-like feet, giving the impression that the table had been hewn from a single great tree. The style was archaically intricate, too overblown for modern tastes - no doubt why it was in here, left only to the admiring eyes of those being kept out of the way.
As his eyes adjusted to the weak light, Jachen stiffened. Peering over the backs of the central pews he saw he was not alone. A bulky figure was squatting on the floor, shrouded by the dark tent of a cape that spread around him.
‘Forgive me,’ Jachen said. ‘I hadn’t realised anyone was in here.’
If the man heard, he made no sign. He was crouched between the far end of the table and the pews, head bowed low. His hair, though not particularly long, was tied up in a top-knot. A soldier then, Jachen thought, and from his size, a white-eye, perhaps one of the Guard.
‘I’ve been ordered to wait in here. I’ll not disturb whatever you’re doing -ah, what are you doing?’
‘Playing hide-and-seek, of course.’ The reply was a low rumble, suggesting a massive pair of lungs.
The major licked his lips and gave his uniform another tug before asking, ‘Hide-and-seek?’
‘Hide-and-seek,’ confirmed the figure, head still stooped as if in prayer. ‘What of it?’
‘I . . . Nothing. It’s just a little unusual. I was not expecting you to say that.’
‘Much of what I do confounds prediction.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Who in damnation are you?’
Jachen bit back his first response. Just keep your mouth shut. If Kerin’s going to give you another chance, don’t blow it by starting a fight before you’ve even reached the man’s office.
‘My name is Jachen Ansayl,’ he replied, adding defensively, ‘Major Jachen Ansayl.’
‘Ansayl, eh? Bastard, are you?’
‘That’s rich, coming from a white-eye.’ Damn. The name Ansayl marked him as a bastard (or grandson of a bastard, in Jachen’s case) of the Sayl suzerainty north of Tirah. He’d grown used to the jibes, learning through bitter experience that it was better to meet them with a joke than a scowl. Either was a bad idea here.
The white-eye gave a throaty chuckle that sounded like the grating of a tomb’s door to Jachen. He raised his head and looked straight at Jachen, his disconcerting eyes shining out of the gloom like Arian’s cruel light on Silvernight. Jachen had never liked white-eyes, despite years of soldiering alongside them; he had never been able to get used to the dark malevolence they all exuded. Even those who weren’t violent drunkards unnerved him.
This man was younger than Jachen had first thought. His features were sharp, calculating. A faint prickle of foreboding ran down Jachen’s spine. The white-eye emitted a long sigh, as though only now emerging from whatever trance he’d been in, and flicked aside his cloak. A lump appeared in Jachen’s throat as he saw the fine clothes. His heart sank further when he saw the naked silver blade that lay across the white-eye’s lap, glowing faintly in the shadows.
Damn again. All the way to the Dark Place.
‘My Lord, I—’
Jachen’s apology was cut short by a raised hand. ‘I can let it pass.’
Lord Isak rose and Jachen found himself edging backwards. The new Lord of the Farlan was almost as big as Lord Bahl, though not yet quite as solid. Not quite as solid? Jachen scoffed at himself. This man could tear you in two with his bare hands and your first thought is that he’s not so large as another giant of a man? He forced himself to stand still as Lord Isak sheathed his sword with a flourish and began to inspect Jachen with unnerving curiosity.
‘You were going to take a seat.’ He indicated the bench on Jachen’s right.
‘A seat? Oh yes, of course. But that was . . . I didn’t—’
‘Sit.’
Jachen’s legs started back and he sank down on the bench, spine straight. His sword had slipped under the arm-rest of the bench and was caught; feeling foolish, Jachen tried to hide his embarrassment as he fumbled with the clasps on his scabbard before finally freeing the weapon and laying it down beside him.
Lord Isak hadn’t moved. His head was cocked to one side and he had a slight smile on his lips. Finally he stepped back and eased his weight onto the corner of the oak table, which groaned and creaked alarmingly in protest.
‘So, Major Jachen Ansayl, what are you doing here, apart from disturbing vital matters of state and occult importance?’
‘Occult importance?’ Jachen echoed. ‘You said you were playing hide-and-seek.’
‘Do you see a horde of children running around the palace looking for me?
‘Well, no.’
‘Do you expect your lord to be engaging in such childish games?’
‘Of course not.’
‘I was a few weeks ago.’
‘Oh. But you’re not now?’
He smiled. Jachen felt his shoulders tense at his lord’s expression, the predatory smile of a serpent. Bloody white-eyes, why do they always put me on edge? He felt his hand start to move up to his neck to tug at the high collar again, but stopped it. No need to make his nervousness even more obvious.
‘No, I’m not playing childish games. Do you know what this is?’ He held up what looked like a glass sphere, about the size of a normal man’s fist and turned it in the rays streaming from the slit window. Where the sunlight caught it, the object burst into a glittering display that reflected on the walls of the room.
‘Oh Gods, that’s a Crystal Skull, isn’t it?’
‘Good boy. When someone like me plays hide-and-seek, I’ve discovered there’s rarely any fun involved. A mage called Dermeness Chirialt is wandering the palace, trying to find me, while I use this. I’m told that channelling so much power can make me easy to find, so on the battlefield every enemy mage will immediately have my position fixed in their mind. I’m guessing that won’t be much fun either.’
‘Ah—No, my Lord.’
The Duke of Tirah continued to stare at Jachen as though the major were a new toy. ‘So are you going to tell me why you’re here?’
‘Of course, my Lord, I’m sorry. I was summoned by Swordmaster Keri
n for a meeting.’
‘About what?’
‘I don’t really know. I’ve been working at ranger stations for the last few years now -as far from civilisation as Swordmaster Kerin could find. My current posting is on top of a mountain -it’s not that far from the nearest town, but most Farlan don’t go beyond the tree line, so I only have ghosts and daemons for company most of the year.’ Jachen paused, a thoughtful frown turning suddenly into awakening anger. ‘That bastard -he ordered me to come in here -he knows what my temper’s like. He must have known you were in here and hoped I’d say something stupid.’ Jachen half-rose from his seat before a growl froze him midway.
‘It looks like he was right.’
Jachen sank back down. ‘But we’ve history, he and I. My posting wasn’t the first punishment I’ve had since—Well, since things went bad. This is just like Kerin to let me get myself into trouble, but I can’t believe he—’
Lord Isak slammed his palm against the tabletop beside him. Jachen blinked. He’d not even seen the white-eye’s hand move.
‘Despite what you may believe, not every action is solely about you.’ He slipped from the table and advanced around the central pews. ‘According to some people, the same cannot be said for me, but that just goes to show the idiocy of some people. However, I am Lord of the Farlan, no matter how young I might be. Kerin is my Swordmaster; he answers to me. I am not a tool for punishing rangers with dubious records and ill-fitting uniforms. Do you understand me?’
Jachen nodded dumbly.
‘Good. How old are you?’
‘I—Thirty-seven summers, my Lord.’
‘Thirty-seven eh? You share that with Count Vesna at least, though you look older. Still, you’re younger than the last, which can’t be a bad thing.’
‘The last what? Count Vesna? My Lord, I doubt many men in this palace would think I had anything in common with Count Vesna.’
‘Kerin obviously does.’
‘My Lord, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Clearly not.’ Lord Isak pointed to Jachen’s throat. ‘Loosen that top button. Perhaps you’ll think a little clearer with some blood reaching your head.’
Jachen flushed as he followed Isak’s instruction.
The white-eye beamed. ‘See, your colour’s returning already. Divinely granted infallibility is a wonderful thing.’
‘Infallibility?’ Jachen said, trying to catch up with the conversation. ‘Again, my Lord, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t think such a thing has been recognised by the Cult of Nartis.’
‘Damn. Really? I’m finding it hard to tell whether I’m always right, or whether most people simply have more sense than to argue with a seven-foot giant capable of ripping a man apart with his bare hands and burning whatever is left to ashes.’ He advanced a couple of paces, close enough to reach out and touch Jachen, and peered down to inspect him.
Jachen couldn’t swallow. His throat was suddenly too dry.
‘Perhaps you’re right after all; your colour seems to have gone again. I must have been wrong.’ He stepped back and smiled. ‘Now consider this: over the last day, I have met with four men, all sent to me by Swordmaster Kerin. All of them have excellent service records, proven skills of leadership and useful political connections.’
‘I—I imagine you need to have a new commander of your guard.’ Jachen paused. ‘Oh Gods.’
‘A new commander!’ exclaimed Lord Isak with affected delight. ‘Correct! I must have been right about the collar after all. Now, what do you think Swordmaster Kerin was doing when he presented men who irritated me beyond measure?’ He raised his finger - as white as a bone in moonlight - and began pacing, looking for all the world like a schoolmaster lecturing an errant pupil, rather than one of the most powerful men in the Land.
‘Firstly, Scion Cormeh, who will soon be Suzerain Cormeh, from what I hear. I could tell from his expression that the pious little shit disapproved of my cursing; he was lucky to get out of the room without being strangled. Next, a knight from Foleh, who lacked any personality, nodded at everything and managed no more than three words in any given sentence. I can’t trust any man who’s going to follow every order I give without question - I am a bloody white-eye, after all.’
Jachen froze. Gods, I didn’t say it out loud, did I?
Lord Isak turned like a sergeant on the parade ground and continued his lecture. ‘Then there was the colonel with the ridiculous moustache. Despite Kerin’s recommendation, the man was a complete idiot. He obviously considered my opinions worthless because I was less than half his age. The last one was . . . well, he was ugly. Very ugly. Face like a ten-week-old side of lamb. It annoyed me.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t get close enough to smell the man, but I’m confident he stank - and as you know, I’m never wrong.’
Lord Isak glanced towards the door. Jachen followed the movement, but he saw nothing untoward. The door remained steadfastly shut and he could hear nothing beyond it. When he returned his attention to Lord Isak, the white-eye was scrutinising him again.
‘Kerin gave me those four, then you. You don’t really fit with the rest of the list, so why?’
‘I don’t know,’ Jachen said with feeling. ‘The Swordmaster knows I have done some things right in my life, though he’s no great admirer. I led a night assault on a castle. I saved the life of the former Suzerain Danva, who showed his gratitude by buying me my commission. I also served as his hurscal for a year.’
‘Only a year?’
‘I have a history of making bad decisions.’
‘So what do you imagine were Kerin’s thoughts on the subject of including you on this list?’
Jachen took a deep breath. He was warming to Isak: the young man had an unnervingly intense air about him, but Jachen was beginning to enjoy the luminary presence of his lord. Either that, or abject terror had made him light-headed. Probably best not to speculate which. ‘A counter-point to the others, no doubt. If you are making a choice, variety is always preferable.’
‘Does that strike you as like the man?’
‘No, not really,’ Jachen admitted. ‘Swordmaster Kerin’s too clever for that.’
‘So why send me men likely to annoy me?’
‘To direct your choice towards the one he wants.’
‘And that would be you?’
‘I’d say I’ve managed to annoy you at least as much as the others, so who comes after me?’
Lord Isak grinned. ‘You might be right there, but there’s no one else. Any other thoughts?’
Jachen hesitated. A history of bad decisions. Oh well, all or nothing here. ‘That you’re hellish to serve, dismissing perfectly competent officers for no good reason. You want a commander who suits your eccentricity, but is experienced in battle and able to think on his feet.’
‘How many think when they’re on their back?’ Lord Isak countered, his grin widening.
‘Quite; you also need a commander who understands your puerile sense of humour. Lastly, that a sensible man would have to be desperate to take the post because there’s a good chance of being run through or blasted by the wrath of the heavens, or both, even.’ He dared a breath. Isak was still smiling. In fact, the Duke of Tirah appeared decidedly pleased.
Perhaps Kerin has got this right after all, Jachen thought hesitantly. With Count Vesna at his side, Lord Isak doesn’t need the best tactician in the army, nor a champion as commander of his guard. He needs a man he can stand to speak to every day as much as anything.
‘It’s a fair point,’ the white-eye replied. ‘Do you know what my last commander did when he thought I was making the wrong decision? He clouted me round the head in public. For that I almost squeezed the life out of him. Do you think you could do the same if you thought it was right? Do you still want this post?’
‘I don’t ever remember wanting this post, my Lord. Certainly I don’t know whether I’d have the guts to face you down from doing something stupid, but I�
��ll take it if you’ll have me. Maybe I do want a chance to prove myself again.’
‘Only maybe?’
‘Maybe I just don’t care any more.’ The comment came out with the flippancy of truth before Jachen could bite it back.
Lord Isak’s expression fell. He looked grave.
Damn. How much did I really mean that?
‘I hope that’s not the case. I need a man to temper the flames of my anger, not let them run amok. Don’t you have any family to prove yourself to?’
‘Don’t think there’s much hope there,’ Jachen sighed. ‘In any case, I’ve served long enough to know that there’s only one person you can prove anything to and that’s yourself. Men who look to be heroes are usually the dead ones.’
‘Good. Tell me one thing: what exactly did you do to get in Kerin’s bad books in the first place?’
Jachen grimaced. ‘In the first place would be going back a ways, but what the men hate me for is leaving my post. I abandoned my regiment for the sake of my wife and daughter.’
‘Did they survive?’
‘Of the regiment? A few.’
‘I meant your family,’ said Lord Isak.
‘My daughter did. She hates me for a coward, like the rest of the tribe.’
‘Most men would want to justify what they’d just said.’
‘It’s my tale, and mine to tell as much of it as I want.’ Jachen couldn’t help sounding petulant as he said it. The insinuation in Isak’s voice had been obvious, and Jachen had risen to it.
‘True. I’m just intrigued when a man makes so little effort to defend his actions, especially when he has been recommended by one of the most respected soldiers in the Land. Kerin’s covered himself well, though; he’s not formally suggested you, merely arranged a meeting. That way no one can complain about being passed over, and he doesn’t get in trouble if I hate you. About which, by the way, Major Jachen Ansayl, I’m still undecided. ’