When the door Jack indicated had opened earlier to let officials in he had noticed that the corridor beyond was better lit than the ones they had come from. More than that, he saw a number of people in official robes hurrying down it in the same direction, some glancing at their chronometers as they went.
Obviously they were going to a special event, and Jack thought there was a chance that it was one at which the Emperor might be present.
Stort drew himself up once more, gazed in a pious yet imperious way at those around him, and without more ado strode, stave in hand, through the door, his friends following, and the crowd of ambassadors and others too.
Officials fell away, one alone running on ahead in a vain attempt perhaps to warn someone of what was happening. At the same time, down the corridor behind them, some double doors burst open and another crowd appeared. This was the larger one which had gone a different way earlier and had somehow got wind of what was going on.
Feld was smiling. He saw a group of tough-looking males carrying staves and had a word with them.
‘Friends in need,’ he said. ‘They’ll help us. Better still, they confirmed where we are,’ he said. ‘Just keep on marching and we’ll get to the Great Hall. Couldn’t be better, but what we do after that I have no idea.’
‘Nor me,’ said Jack as they swept along in Stort’s splendid wake, his stave like a shepherd’s crook, his followers a good deal more like a crusading army than sheep.
41
CELEBRATION
The Great Hall of Bochum was looking its best. The day was clear outside and sun streamed through its high windows in shafts of light through the dry and dusty air. These shifted slowly through the day, their colour changing from the softness of morning to the harsh brightness of midday. By evening they were nearly horizontal once more, lazy pink and orange with the sunset.
Most hydden in Bochum worked in the levels beneath. To them the Hall was both respite and inspiration.
Three wide concourses led into it from west, north and east. These were places of promenade, Court gossip and assignations. At their furthest ends the business of trade and shopping, finance and money-lending took place.
A fourth way lay behind the Emperor’s throne at the south end of the hall, hidden by an embroidered arras of silk.
It led to Sinistral’s offices and private rooms and to a complex of elevators and moving stairways which enabled him, should he wish, to access any part of Bochum, secretly and fast.
During his long sleep it had been Blut’s responsibility to keep these lifts and stairways open and in working order, which had been done with quiet efficiency.
A discreet green door on the left side of the South Wing, as it was known, led into what looked like a plain, empty room. In fact it had three more doors, all entrances to lifts, one of which offered access to Level 18, half a mile below.
None of this was visible on the surface above except for the ruined footings of a former human factory, now the roof of the Great Hall. It was this location in the heart of a massive tip and rubbish dump that Feld had pointed out to Jack and the others when they first approached Bochum.
Hydden were banned from that area of the surface, as were humans by their own authorities. The reason was not just the danger from so much unstable waste and swampland bubbling with toxic gases. The area had been colonized by dogs, now feral, their ancestors the aggressive guard dogs used to control slave labour used in armament factories thereabout during the human war seventy years before.
Their vile progeny, tainted and mutated with mongrel blood, far more aggressive than the dogs that spawned them, roamed the tips in rival packs, drank in the swamps, and fed off the rats and other species that survived in the rubbish.
Once in a while a hydden accidentally ventured into that dangerous place. Unless they were rescued by armed Fyrd, wearing protective suits, their chances of survival after nightfall were nil. The dogs sniffed them out, encircled them, attacked and ripped them apart, their filthy pups fighting for what scraps remained. All that the hydden in the tunnels below knew about their last moments were their screams, echoing and reverberating in the ventilation shafts.
But such terrors were far from anyone’s thoughts that early evening.
The Hall was bedecked with Summer flowers which had been cleverly placed around the walls and in stands on the floors, where they caught the light.
The flowers, like the candles that were lit as twilight fell, were My Lady Leetha’s idea, she being in charge of the decorative aspects of Bochum’s biggest event for years.
Blut had not approved.
Her first demand, for two thousand candles, he had been able to head off on the practical grounds that by the time the last was lit the first would long since have burnt itself out.
‘Then, my Lady, there is the most serious aspect, the risk of fire which, as you know, the Emperor is peculiarly sensitive to.’
‘Well then, if we can’t have two thousand make it one thousand; they will look so pretty.’
Blut had said he would see what might be done and arranged for no more than one hundred candles, tall and thick, to be placed at intervals around the edge of the hall, with two buckets of water next to each one.
When Blut had first taken on the dreadful business of the Emperor’s celebration such tedious arguments over minutiae had come close to breaking him. But he had taken it all in his stride, made the decisions as they came, and kept his focus on more important things.
He had even learnt from the experience. He had often wondered what quality above all others set Sinistral apart, such that he had ended up as Emperor. Blut now saw that his secret lay in his management of people, a skill Blut had developed with difficulty and which still sometimes failed him.
At that skill Sinistral had a master’s touch, unaffected by his long sleep. He knew how to give praise and motivate those around him. He even calmed down the temperamental chef Parlance, from Brum, who had nearly driven Blut to distraction when he first arrived, with his endless demands for better equipment, better staff and better produce.
The Emperor’s offer to give public praise if the banquet pleased him, and a subsequent quiet word between the two in the kitchens, had done the trick. Blut was glad he had not yielded to temptation and sent the chef packing. For now, the banquet over and the courtiers starting to file into the Hall for the presentations, all were singing the little chef’s praises.
Blut could at last begin to relax.
The event was going well and the behind-the-scenes work by his own department was making it all seem effortless. An hour more and it would be over bar the shouting, which he had no intention of staying for. Let the younger folk sing and dance – he would retire for the evening to his humble near the surface while the Emperor, no doubt, would find somewhere safe to stare up at the stars.
Blut stood near the throne with Ealdor Vayle, the most senior courtier, checking a few details of the Emperor’s imminent arrival at the far end of the Hall and the placing of certain of the more important courtiers as they accompanied Sinistral to the throne. From then on Blut would take a back seat, moving behind the Emperor so that he could prompt him as appropriate; and, too, be able to move forward swiftly and keep at bay any officials and courtiers likely to irritate or overtax the Emperor with their worries and blatherings.
Vayle had the Court protocol at his fingertips, and like Blut knew just how to head off trouble before it escalated, yet not ruffle feathers when he did so.
General Schlotle appeared, the supreme chief of the Fyrd, though one now in the shadow of General Quatremayne, his likely successor. He looked calm and collected.
‘All under control, gentlemen, though not without some difficulty in the corridors, there being more people wanting to come to this event than even you predicted, Blut. But . . . we have put in place ways of diverting them, slowing them, such that by the time we have processed them – politely of course – the event will be over.’
‘Any disside
nce or ill-feeling?’ asked Vayle.
‘Surprisingly little . . . the mood is cheerful.’
The Hall was now filling rapidly and the hubbub of voices getting louder and louder as the excitement built.
Schlotle had placed Fyrd guards around the room, though not so prominently that they looked in any way menacing.
Two contingents of three, dressed in ceremonial uniform of black and red, stood either side of the throne. Various important officials and ambassadors were to sit in seats that now formed a line to one side.
The normal cord barriers had been removed, and all that stood in front of the throne was the Emperor’s stave of office and the two magnificent bejewelled arks of gold in which the gems of Spring and Summer had been placed. The clue to which was which lay in the jewels that encrusted the lids.
One, to the left of the throne, shone green with gems of tourmaline and obsidian, jade and shining emerald. The other, to its right, shone yellow with sapphire and citrine, fluorite and a dozen yellow amethysts.
‘Are they to be opened and the gems revealed?’ asked Vayle. ‘Everybody wishes to know.’
‘They are,’ said Blut, ‘very briefly but not together, for that risks a melding of their light such as no one has ever seen or can imagine. I have advised the Emperor against it but, well . . . he is the Emperor after all. One must hope he does not get carried away.’
‘Quite so,’ growled Schlotle. ‘It’s never a good idea to provoke the people to overexcitement, but I think we have the situation very well contained.’
He smiled complacently, having missed Blut’s point entirely. It was the gems that Blut was worrying about, not the people.
Trumpets sounded in the main Concourse; the audience in the Hall settled and a hush fell. Schlotle, Vayle and Blut, nodding to each other, went to take up their different positions around the throne. In addition to the candles, and the dying sun, the Hall had been lit by four great gaslights. These were now slowly dimmed, which had the effect of making the very last of the evening light bright on the western windows. As that, too, died the candles took over, their warm flickering light and shadows spectacular on the flowers and decorations.
A few moments later, to another fanfare, the procession arrived, children coming first, dressed in Court uniform, wyfkin next, and then the Emperor himself, flanked by courtiers.
There was nothing formal or serious about any of their faces. They had been instructed by Sinistral to be happy, to talk, to joke and to laugh, to walk into the hall with joy. This was a celebration, a time for joy.
Musicians walked with them, playing the tuble and the hot drone, choristers singing roundels of youth and gaiety.
In the midst of it all, taller than most, more resplendent than any, glorious in robes of sable and black velvet, his hair seeming aflame with the candlelight, came the Emperor himself, laughing, smiling, waving, ever youthful, if now somewhat stiff of step and movement. A step behind, to his left, came My Lady Leetha, her robes a soft, pale echo of his own – plain, pale, flowing and exquisite.
To his right, his own dark stave in his hand, walked Witold Slew, the only grim face there: love, power, strength – these three qualities seemed now at the very heart and soul of the Empire. As they passed down the centre of the Hall the courtiers rose as one, clapping, smiling, joyful.
When they reached the front, four great bilgesnipe, dressed in red, picked up his throne and brought it forward onto a dais between the two arks that held the gems.
Sinistral sat down, all others followed.
Elevated though he was, the arks were higher, and when a spotlight was turned on, their jewelled lids shone bright. Yet Sinistral, youthful as he seemed and strong, shone brighter still and the arks were like stars in his firmament, the whole making a dazzling and awesome display.
The guards receded into shadows and Slew, dressed in black, passed his own stave to the cripple who accompanied him on such occasions and took up instead the Emperor’s stave.
The music died, trumpets sounded once more, and Vayle, now standing at a lectern of gold to one side, took over as Master of Ceremonies and began, ‘My Lord Emperor, Lords, Ladies . . .’
It was beautifully and gracefully done as awards were made, medals given, jollity sustained, and presentation after presentation greeted with clapping, laughter and pride.
‘And not forgetting,’ said the Emperor towards the end of the presentations, his strong voice carrying effortlessly to the farthest recesses of the Hall, and there being no hint of his irrationalities or nascent insanity, ‘the gentleman who, I believe, has given more pleasure to us all than any other here today! I present to you the great chef Parlance, born as I was in the rebellious and contentious city of Brum, which . . . which . . .’
It was then, as Parlance came forward to accept a scroll of honour, that Blut realized something was wrong.
The clue lay in the Emperor’s face, so joyful and confident all evening. He had paled as he repeated himself and there came over him a look of puzzlement and dismay.
He glanced over the guests to the western entrance, by which two Fyrd stood.
Blut followed his gaze but saw nothing wrong.
Yet there it was on Sinistral’s face – bewilderment, uncertainty, fear.
Blut glanced at the audience but they had noticed nothing, thinking the Emperor’s hesitation was merely for emphasis. But Leetha had and she, like Blut, looked concerned.
‘. . . Which,’ said the Emperor a third time, cocking his head as if he heard something they could not, ‘which . . .’
There came a running of feet and through the western entrance came a Fyrd, sweating, puffing, desperate-looking.
Discretion would have suited the moment better, but that he did not have. He hurried so fast down the Hall that Blut barely had time to intercept him before he reached the Emperor himself.
Blut grasped his arm and stilled him.
‘Well?’
‘It’s . . . they . . . we couldn’t . . . they . . .’
Who? What?’ hissed Blut. ‘And keep your voice down.’
‘They’re coming,’ said the guard, ‘and there are too few of us to stop them.’
Who’s coming?’
Too late: the Emperor had heard.
He stepped back from the lectern ashen-faced and reached for Blut’s arm.
Leetha came to him as well.
Who’s coming?’ she said.
‘Can’t you hear him?’ whispered Sinistral. ‘Can’t you hear?’
For a moment the Hall was silent as the grave, the audience struck dumb by this strange turn of events.
Then they heard the tramp-tramp-tramp of what seemed an approaching army and the curious sing-song chant they uttered as they came.
à Faroün! à Faroün! à Faroün!
The Emperor let out a cry of fear.
Leetha commanded, ‘Get him to safety!’
à Faroün! à Faroün! à Faroün!
But as Fyrd tried to grasp his arms he shrugged them off, suddenly fierce, his fear replaced by anger.
‘Master of Shadows,’ he thundered, ‘Leetha, Blut, stand by me! We shall face ã Faroün and kill him or die ourselves!’
Blut whispered, ‘You see, My Lady? He veers towards madness.’
To which Leetha replied, ‘Perhaps, Blut, or perhaps not. We shall see.’
No one moved, for whatever the state of his mind and the value of his commands, all there wished to stay and support the Emperor.
42
FIGHT
As Jack and the others neared the entrance to the Great Hall, with the angry mob behind them spoiling to disrupt the celebrations, he saw that their situation was serious.
Ahead were four stolid-looking Fyrd, their ironclad staves at the ready and crossbows on their belts.
Beyond them was an audience of well-dressed hydden of both sexes and all ages who until seconds before had been facing down the Hall, their attention drawn to something he could not see from the corridor. N
ow, hearing the chanting, they looked fearfully Jack’s way.
He had Feld to his right and three or four of the tough-looking fighters who had agreed earlier to help them if need be. Now they sensed that real action was in the offing they had come forward resolutely to be near when they were needed.
Stort and Barklice were to Jack’s left. He doubted that they would be much use in serious hand-to-hand fighting, but then that was not their role.
‘You’re the one who knows about gems, Stort, so your job is to grab ’em if you see ’em! We’ll protect you, or divert attention from you, while you do.’
But Stort looked put out.
‘My dear Jack,’ he said stiffly, ‘these are some of the holiest artefacts in the Hyddenworld, one does not just “grab ’em”. In any case, anyone directly touching them would be ill-advised; they can heal and they can also make you sick and there’s no predicting which . . . It took me days to recover from holding Spring for just a few minutes . . .’
Jack grinned. ‘Then Barklice will have to lend you a hand!’
‘Um . . . I . . . suppose . . .’
‘Thank you, Barklice!’
The corridor was lit only by gaslights at shoulder height along the walls, which cast their shadows back and forth in an intimidating way upon the ceiling.
It was evident from the soft hues and flickering light in the Hall ahead that it was lit mainly by candles. They could see some on its far side – tall and elegant, their flames high, the reflectors behind them bright.
Nearer-to, by the entrance they were approaching, the Fyrd were lit from either side, so Jack guessed there were candles there too.
‘The audience poses a problem,’ he said in a low voice. ‘It includes childer and their parents among them and we must not cause them harm or put them in danger. Are there other ways out?’
‘Two main ones,’ said Feld, ‘and one behind the Emperor’s throne, but his guards won’t want that used. Keep smiling . . . as I suggested!’
This seemed an odd command at such a moment but it was not. Feld had explained earlier that the Fyrd were trained not to draw their bows and shoot until they believed there was no alternative. Smiles confused them.
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