The Rede leaned forward to speak, but Tel-Mindor raised his hand abruptly for silence and moved towards the window. As he opened it, the sound of raised voices and the clatter of horses' hooves washed into the room.

Chapter 28.

Patterns, patterns, patterns. Dan-Tor sensed the presence of other minds working contrary to his purpose, but their shape and form, and not least, their nucleus, eluded him. He tried to shrug the idea away, but it was reluctant to leave him. The King had started the avalanche, now he, Dan-Tor, had to ride it out through the dust and uproar until all was quiet and the new shape of the land could be surveyed. It was inevitable that opposition would arise and swirl about him from time to time, but while it had no centre, surely it offered no real threat?

These creatures do so look to a leader, he thought. One of their few virtues. They actively seek to becontrolled and manipulated. He had debated with himself whether he should allow a leader to arise and then control him, or whether he should extinguish any hopefuls before they became aware of their potential. On balance, he decided, the latter was preferable. Let the crowds spend their energies milling about aimlessly. There were too many risks a.s.sociated with a leader. No matter how well he might be controlled, one misjudgement and he could be free, and Dan-Tor knew too bitterly what an inspired leader could bring from the people. It was too dangerous. So much easier to douse the tiny sparks before they flared up into what could become an uncontrollable blaze.

Now, however, he found that he could not escape the feeling that a leader had already emerged. One of cunning and experience; one who knew sufficient of the ways of men to keep himself hidden from view while he built up his strength. Working quietly in the shadows until he felt the time was ripe.

Walking to the window, Dan-Tor looked down at the heart of the city nestling around the Palace walls.

The pattern of its streets was distorted by long shadows carved out of the bright rays of the setting sun by countless tiny buildings. Even from this height he could see people walking on the sunnier streets, trailing their own great shadows with them. Is it one of them I fear? he thought consolingly. Tiny people with giants' shadows?

But the name Hawklan wandered relentlessly into his mind. The man was loose and was by now aware of danger. All that he heard of him in Orthlund indicated he was just a healer, but a man who commanded so much spontaneous affection was a man to be watched; and a man who saw so clearly and who so evaded his traps, aided or no, was a man who could usefully be feared, be he Ethriss or no. He was at least a flickering spark, and it irked Dan-Tor that it was his impetuosity that might have fanned him into life.

And I'm blind, he thought angrily as he watched a small bird land on the windowsill unaware of the man's brooding presence behind the gla.s.s. One of his birds had been bound, and it was the nature of the creature that to bind one part was to bind all. But that required great power, the Old Power. Blind or no, he could now see what that implied. Who could wield the Old Power thus except the Cadwanol? They must indeed still exist. It was a bad omen. Though it seemed they had let Hawklan escape . . .

He shook off the thought, knowing it would lead only to a fretting labyrinth of confusion. His gaze fell again on the preening bird. To release his own birds he would have to use the Old Power himself, and ma.s.sively, and He had expressly forbidden that. Hawklan even as Hawklan was proving disruptive, but if Hawklan were Ethriss then such a rending use of the Old Power would awaken him for sure, and Hawklan as Ethriss would be doom itself.

Dan-Tor's spies now were human slow, foolish and unreliable. To use them reminded him too much of his own erstwhile humanity. It was a degradation.

The bird on the sill lifted an elegant black and white wing, and its plumed head bobbed to and fro as it preened and shook itself proudly. Dan-Tor watched it for a moment then narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly. Without a sound, the bird vanished in a burst of red spray, and a cascade of black and white feathers began a long oscillating journey towards the ground far below. Dan-Tor turned away, a thin smile across his wrinkled brown face. Such a slight use of the Old Power could disturb no one except the recipient.

Sitting, he stared out of the window again, seeing now only a blank sky blanched almost white in the setting sun. His mind was tempted to flit and fret after the missing Hawklan, but a deeper voice forbade it. Even a pack leader must leave tracks, it said. If he seeks you, you'll know of his presence when he has your scent, then who will be hunter and who hunted? He nodded reflectively and bent over the papers spread before him. They drew his mind back to his own chains. Confound Dilrap, buzzing endlessly around like a fit bluebottle. It took a considerable effort not to swat him, but he was useful, valuable almost, for all his irritating mannerisms and shrinking temperament. He knew the minutiae of the Law and of the Court procedures that were needed to manipulate events smoothly. Better at this stage to unravel the knots than cut through them. Time enough for that later, and that time would come the sooner if patience were used now.

Strangely, however, Dilrap seemed to be thriving on it. Briefly it occurred to Dan-Tor that, although terrified of him, Dilrap seemed to be deliberately seeking his attention, going out of his way to be helpful.

It was out of character surely? Then perhaps Dilrap could feel which way the wind was blowing and was ingratiating himself thoroughly with the leader of the new order that he could see coming.

Still, it was of no matter. He was needed now, and his co-operation was fortuitous whatever its motive.

Later, he would not be needed and his motivation would be irrelevant. That the ma.s.s of time-consuming paperwork, meetings and petty civic duties 'For the sake of appearance, Lord', twitch was being created by Dilrap to distract him, never occurred to Dan-Tor.

Reluctantly he turned to the latest batch of papers that Dilrap had left for him. The first was a thick doc.u.ment concerning the 'Rights and Privileges of Honourable Prisoners'.

'It's a very long time since any Lords have been arrested, Lord,' Dilrap had said. 'But it has happened in the past, and provision has been made within the Law for such a contingency.' Dan-Tor had looked skyward and Dilrap had quailed.

'Lord,' he said, in a great flurry of jerks and twitches, 'if I know of this, then those looking to the Lords'

interest will know of it. If not now, then soon.'

'They have no one looking to their interests, Honoured Secretary,' Dan-Tor replied, tight-lipped. 'Save us. They're held by Special Edict. They see only their guards, and any of their friends who dare to show their faces see only yourself or me.'

'This is true, Lord, but . . .' Dan-Tor drew in a loud breath and stood up very straight. Dilrap babbled out his reservations frantically. 'Lord. The Special Edict is an Edict of Examination, it relates only to their detention. A trial must be held eventually. They'll have friends who'll emerge when that happens, and those friends will be looking at the Law now, with that end in mind. If we're faulted on small details there's no telling what it might lead to. The people are . . .'

'The people are what?' demanded Dan-Tor stonily.

Dilrap cast about, becoming progressively more fl.u.s.tered as Dan-Tor's eyes looked through him.

'Uncertain,' he said at last. 'Uncertain.'

Dan-Tor did not speak. Dilrap became confidential, shifty almost. Carefully not looking at the Lord, he said, 'The four Lords . . . traitors, have many friends and are loved by many of the people, albeit misguidedly. The demand for an early trial will persist grow, even.' He lifted his eyes and gazed straight at Dan-Tor. 'And only a trial will expose the truth of their treachery. We must observe the forms of the Law. If we don't, then we undermine our case and it will be doomed from the start. You know what these lawyers are like. If then we detain the Lords, who knows what the people might do. And if the Lords are allowed free . . .' He left the implications unstated. Dan-Tor felt Dilrap's forked stick pinning him to the ground. The serpent pinned by the worm. But it would be vain to struggle. The Mathidrin could perhaps control rioting within Vakloss and some of the other large towns, but there were too few to control the whole country, and the news of an illegal detention would bring an armed and angry population down on Vakloss like a tidal wave. It was not in his interests to have Fyorlund torn by civil strife. Far better that the people be gradually wooed to him.

Let the slow corruption continue. The King's contribution must be ridden out peacefully.

'We mustn't cede these traitors their victory by tempting the people to rash action or by foolishly ensuring their release,' he said coldly. 'Let me have details of these provisions for the arrest of Lords.'

Dilrap risked a brief knowing smile and, hitching his gown on to his shoulders, bowed and retreated. As he reached the door, Dan-Tor pointed a long brown finger at him.

'Briefly, Dilrap. Briefly,' he said.

Now Dan-Tor stared at the results of this admonition. Sheet upon sheet of closely written script, laden with column annotations, footnotes, cross-references and, at a quick glance, some of the densest legal prose that the Law of Fyorlund could produce. He would have to read it of course. Dilrap's observations had been too accurate for him to ignore. He glanced irritably at the pale light washing in through the window and clicked a globe into life. Its glare dimmed the evening sky outside and cast harsh shadows around his room. Their clarity relaxed him.

Far below, in the darkening streets, a few people noticed the harsh white light appear in the tower wall, like an inhuman eye peering out over the City. Those who knew it for what it was were divided: some saw it as the Lord Dan-Tor working tirelessly to a.s.suage the confusion and disorder that seemed to be sweeping the country, while others, a touch wiser, presumed he was plotting yet more schemes and devilment to undermine the ancient way of life of the Fyordyn. Both camps seemed to find less and less on which they could stand and debate rationally, let alone agree. Both noted a sourness and anger seeping into their lives that they had never known before, and each was inclined to look to the other for the cause.

Further below still, the four Lords indeed plotted and schemed. Their brief foray from their cell, especially that of Hreldar and Darek, had told them where they were, but that knowledge was of limited value. It served mainly to confirm that, to escape their prison, they would need good fortune and more than a little help from the outside.

After their initial euphoria, they lapsed a little into a darker mood as they pondered the problems ahead of them. They found it interesting that there had been no repercussions from their escapade. Hreldar, with Darek's help, had made a slow and convincing recovery once he had reached fresh air, and had shown no further symptoms since, but Arinndier now made a conspicuous point of looking suspiciously at all their food, and of talking to the guards who brought it. After a while the ch.o.r.e devolved on to a single kitchen servant who bore Arinndier's scrutiny with a surly indifference.

Eldric was of the opinion that the incident had not risen very far up the ranks of the Mathidrin. 'They made a mistake, and they don't want Dan-Tor to find out about it, I'm sure,' he said. 'I think we've found an interesting weakness in our jailers with our little piece of theatre.'

Arinndier raised his eyebrows to request an elaboration of this remark.

Eldric obliged. 'These people aren't like our High Guards. They've not entered a service because of duty or tradition. They've entered it for some form of personal gain. Wherever they've been dredgedfrom they've got all the earmarks of ex-prisoners and misfits, and there's more than a few foreigners among them, judging by some of the accents we've heard. I'll wager that such honour as they have is easily purchased.'

'So?' queried Arinndier.

'So they play barrack-room politics, Arin,' continued Eldric. 'They'll form cliques and factions. War amongst themselves for kudos in the eyes of their superiors.'

Arinndier was unimpressed. 'Our own people do that, Eldric,' he said.

Eldric waved a dismissive hand. 'Yes, yes,' he conceded. 'But on the whole they put their service before themselves and, if anything serious happens, they'll come forward and admit it.' He levelled a probing finger. 'Dan-Tor never heard about what we did. We'd have been moved or separated by now if he had. Someone, somewhere, stopped the news going further.'

'So what?' Arinndier maintained his indifference. Eldric scowled and Arinndier looked insincerely apologetic.

'Any soldier with a grain of sense, Arin, would know that what we did should've been reported right up to the top. It was unusual and highly suspicious behaviour.' He sat down by Arinndier and tapped his arm significantly. 'They didn't even send so much as a horse healer to look at Hreldar after he'd started to look well again.' He paused. 'They don't trust their superiors. They're frightened. Either of punishment or lack of advancement. But whatever the reason, they don't trust them.' Arinndier sat quiet awhile considering the implications of Eldric's observations. The a.n.a.lysis seemed reasonable. The Mathidrin could well be disciplined by fear, or greed, while the High Guards were disciplined by respect and honour. The Mathidrin would be bound together reluctantly while the High Guards sustained one another willingly.

He nodded. 'So we learn what we can about each one individually. Encourage them in gossip. Bind them with petty corruptions where we can.'

'Exactly,' said Eldric, clapping his hands together. 'Play their own game. We know where we are now.

We know our well-being's a matter of some concern to them. Let's find out more about who holds us.

Let's start a little more rot growing in the roots of these creations of Dan-Tor's.'

Above them, the City continued its uneasy life in the mellow summer gloaming, until the street globes burst abruptly into life and washed away the soft shadows with their harsh light. It was a regular evening occurrence greeted by some with relief and by others with irritation. But normally, all left the streets. It was the wisest thing to do in these troubled times. The light held exposure. The dark shadows, treachery.

Chapter 29.

Rede Berryn glanced out of the window at the Mathidrin patrol, then picked up a pen and began writing rapidly.

'Go and bring that Sirshiant up, Tel,' he said, without looking up. 'Don't rush. And look pleasantly surprised,' he added as an afterthought.

Then to Hawklan and Isloman, 'I can't stop them taking you, but I think I can smooth the way a little.

This lad's a bit nasty, but he's more ambition than intelligence and I can usually handle him.' He looked atthe two men. 'Stay seated until I introduce you.'

There was a discreet knock at the door and Tel-Mindor entered, followed by a sour-faced young Mathidrin officer carrying his helmet under his arm. Hawklan noted immediately that beneath the man's arrogance was an uncertain deference.

'Sirshiant . . .' began the Rede as he rose carefully to greet the newcomer. Then he paused and looked conspicuously at the man's insignia. 'I'm sorry,' he said, smiling broadly. 'Captain, I should say.

Congratulations. When did that happen?'

The young man looked down briefly and cleared his throat awkwardly. 'Two days ago, Rede,' he replied. Then, deprecatingly, 'It's only a field commission, it probably won't be confirmed, but . . .'

The Rede waved the disclaimer aside. 'I'm sure it will,' he said heartily. 'Don't worry. Anyway, this may be your big chance. I'm very glad you dropped in.' He proffered the note he had just written. 'I was about to send a messenger to you with this.' He continued speaking while the Captain was reading.

'These two gentlemen are Isloman and the Lord Hawklan, envoys from Orthlund with papers for the Lord Dan-Tor.' At the Rede's discreet signal, Hawklan and Isloman both stood up and bowed to the young officer, who started slightly as he looked up and felt the presence of the two men filling the room.

He returned the bow hesitantly, as though unused to such niceties, and his eyes flickered from them to the paper and back to the jovial face of the Rede as if for guidance.

Again, before he could speak, the Rede plunged on, his tone concerned. 'Unfortunately, Gister saw fit to accuse them of being bandits or something, and there's been a bit of an incident you know what he's like I'll tell you about it later. Happily, no real harm's been done but, while these gentlemen have very generously accepted my apologies, they're obviously anxious to have some kind of escort for the rest of their journey. Can you help . . . Captain?'

The Captain congratulated himself on not having taken Gister's panic-stricken message too seriously: 'Orthlundyn spies attacking the village'. He'd deal with that blockhead later. Whatever these two were, they were no ordinary travellers, anyone could see that. A rare fool he'd have made of himself if he'd come charging in with his full troop and arrested them. That would have put paid to his promotion beyond doubt, and probably earned him field punishment, if not worse. Interfering with a messenger to the Lord Dan-Tor! The thought of the consequences chilled him.

In his relief he quickly re-ordered his camp duty rosters. 'Some of the men are due to go back to Vakloss in a day or so, Rede,' he said. 'And I have routine reports to make. I'll escort the envoys personally.' And it'll give me a chance to keep an eye on them, just in case Gister wasn't completely wrong, came a cautionary thought.

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 andproud 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.

Youare 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 pa.s.sages 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 rea.s.suring 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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.