Arwain looked along the broad valley towards Whendrak. Rooftops, towers and pinnacles floated on a light morning mist which was turning yellow in the rising sun. The air was cold and damp, but fresh and clean.
Whendrak was no Serenstad, but it was a fine, lively city. Its architecture mingled the spartan Bethlarii style with that of the ebullient, adventurous, Serens, and showed an equal irreverence for both. It was distinct and unmistakably characteristic. As were the Whendreachi; honed by the generations of warfare that had passed over them.
Rising out of the mist, the city was a beautiful sight, but for those who knew it, the valley carried too many memories for the scene to be observed untainted. Throughout the long history of the land, bitter battle after bitter battle had been fought there over Whendrak, and where the birds were now rising in song with the burgeoning day, the awful screaming song of battle had many times held sway. And the dew-soaked grasses now darkening under the horses’ hooves had as many times been prodigally drenched in blood.
Arwain had a great sympathy, and no small affection, for the Whendreachi, though it was not to be denied that they were a hard, obdurate and abrasive people. They seemed to possess an uncanny knack for self-destruction which was matched only by their seemingly relentless will to survive. And these two attributes they bound together with an acidic, graveyard humour. They tended to be both the delight and the despair of thinking people.
Arwain shook his head as he looked at the city. What the devil was going on there now? Would it prove to be no more than a little local political intriguing? Or would it be some ugly burst of tribal anger threatening to bring riot and terror to the streets and striking the sparks that could lead to war? Or …?
He dismissed his conjectures. He would find out soon enough when he reached the city and he would have to think on his feet then, unclouded by too many prior judgements.
Nonetheless, he was still uneasy. It was true that, of the travellers they had passed on the road, more than usual seemed to be entire families moving wholesale, and many bore a harassed, if not fearful, look about them. But that, though ominous, was not the main cause of his present concern. That came from the conduct of the Mantynnai among his guard.
In the night he had half woken from a fitful sleep to hear the low murmur of voices nearby. Turning, he saw that it was a group sitting around the campfire. They were talking softly but earnestly-agitatedly even-from their gestures. His eyes closing of their own volition, Arwain had made no effort to listen to what they were saying, but words had floated over to him. Strange foreign words, resonant and strong, that in some way made him feel a poor, inadequate creature. The men were the Mantynnai, he realized as he drifted into sleep again. And they were holding this soft, anxious debate in their own language.
Now, in the cold morning, he saw the incident as yet another in the strange chain of events that had started with their chance meeting with Estaan in the crowded Moras street, and gone on to the equally chance encounter with the two riders on the bridge. Seemingly trivial incidents which had left the unshakable Mantynnai uncertain and even defensive.
On an impulse, he signalled the platoon to halt, then motioned Ryllans forward, out of earshot of the others.
'You disturbed me with your debate last night,’ he said, looking intently at him.
Ryllans did not reply immediately. ‘I'm sorry, sir,’ he said flatly after a moment.
'Ryllans, it's not enough,’ Arwain went on, fighting down a twist of anger at this offhand reply. ‘In all the years I've known you, I've never heard you use your own language, even in private when you were alone with your compatriots. And I've never seen you so … uncontrolled … so unsettled. We may be riding into great danger here, as you yourself pointed out. I must know what's happened that could so unman my father's finest guards before I risk entering Whendrak.'
Ryllans met his gaze unflinchingly. He opened his mouth to speak, but Arwain spoke first.
'Elder to younger, Ryllans,’ he said. ‘No deceit, no equivocation.'
Ryllans’ expression softened and he almost smiled. ‘An excellent throw, sir,’ he said. ‘A finely judged lack of opposition to overwhelm me. You're an apt pupil.'
'And none of that either,’ Arwain said sternly. ‘I want the truth. Now!'
Ryllans turned towards the city and shook his head regretfully. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said. ‘I told you yesterday, it is truly not my story to tell.'
Arwain's eyes narrowed, but Ryllans reached out and took his arms, almost fatherly.
'You're correct,’ he said. ‘We are … disturbed.’ He hesitated. ‘Echoes from our past have reached us. Rolling out of nowhere like thunder out of a cloudless summer sky.’ Pain came into his face but he crushed it. ‘Echoes of a past of guilt and shame for which we try ever to atone. Two great blows came yesterday. Separate. But coming together like hammer and anvil. The evil we … followed…’ He forced the word out. ‘…and thought dead, is perhaps with us again. And those we wronged are come to seek us out.'
'The two riders?’ Arwain exclaimed, his face disbelieving. ‘Two men! How could two men exact retribution from you? Besides, you have the protection of all of Serenstad if you need it, you know that. And whatever you may have done, it's long atoned for by your service here.'
'They have the law of our homeland with them. And right,’ Ryllans said simply. ‘And they will seek an accounting, not retribution. Punishment will lie in the hands of others.'
His voice and his whole manner were oddly fatalistic. Arwain put his hand to his head. ‘I don't understand,’ he said. ‘We have our own law here. And no one can…'
Ryllans’ hand tightened about his arm. ‘I told you this, because our shock had infected you and was likely to mar your judgement,’ he said. ‘What I told you yesterday about Whendrak is still also true.’ He pointed towards the city. ‘There is what must occupy your full attention now.’ There was a hint of anger in his voice. ‘We are not unmanned. We are warriors. We move as an attack demands, when it demands. Where there is no foreknowledge, there can be no forethought. And there is never true foreknowledge. That you should know already. We are your Mantynnai, you have our hearts, spirits, and sword arms unimpaired, here and now. Serve us and Serenstad similarly in Whendrak, Ibris's son. All other things in their due time.'
Though softly spoken, Ryllans’ words impinged on Arwain powerfully. He struggled briefly to find an answer to the Mantynnai's ruthless logic, but could not.
Instead, he laid his hand on the hand that was holding his arm and gripped it powerfully in acceptance, then he signalled the platoon forward.
They approached the city at a leisurely walk and with the Duke's pennant well displayed, if a little reluctant to flutter in the still morning air.
'They're extending their walls,’ Ryllans said as they drew nearer. He pointed.
Arwain followed his finger and saw the cobwebs of scaffolding blurring the line of the walls. ‘They're a neutral city, they can do what they want,’ he said with a slight shrug. ‘But it's not good. The Whendreachi wouldn't spend money like that if they weren't very concerned about something.'
They continued in silence until they came to the first gate. It was closed, and a small crowd of people were gathered in front of it, waiting with surly patience for it to be opened. A large burly man sitting on a rock by the side of the gate looked up as Arwain's platoon arrived. Seeing them, he shook his head wearily and stood up, taking hold of the leading rein of a string of donkeys as he did so.
Muttering to himself, he walked over to a wicket door in the gate and began beating on it with a massive clenched fist.
'Come on!’ he bellowed, in the unmistakable Whendreachi accent. ‘Get off your lazy backsides in there. I've got this lot to deliver, there's two midwives, three joiners, a ruptured mason and god knows how many other folk out here with a living to earn.’ He banged again. There was some laughter among the crowd at his manner, and voices were raised in support of his plaint.
'And there's a fortune-teller who's beginning to look decidedly worried,’ the man went on, rising to the crowd. He winked at Arwain. ‘And now the posh folks are starting to arrive. That's how late it is. Shift yourselves!'
Arwain lifted his hands to his face to disguise his amusement at the man's antics. Ryllans laughed openly.
Suddenly there was an angry rattling of bolts and chains, and the wicket was slammed open noisily. A guard emerged, catching his pike on the lintel and nearly tripping as he struggled to release it. He was quite short and he looked decidedly harassed. He was also unimpressed by the applause that greeted his ungainly arrival.
'All right, all right. Stop all this row,’ he said in a voice full of command and indignation until it cracked into a squeak.
'You get this sodding gate open and we'll stop, Erryk,’ said the burly man. ‘Some of us have got jobs to do, you know. Can't sit around the guard house brazier all day.'
The guard cleared his throat. ‘It's not my job to open the gate,’ he said, hoarsely. ‘The gateman's not turned up. And neither's the Exac.'
There was a spontaneous cheer from the crowd.
'You can't come in without paying your Gate Tax,’ the guard protested.
'Nothing to do with us, Erryk,’ the man continued. ‘If he's not here, that's his problem. If he had an honest job he wouldn't be so reluctant to get up in the morning and do it.’ He flicked a thumb towards the sun. ‘Gate's supposed to be open at sun-up, not sun-down. That was the law before taxes were even thought of; part of the Ancient Rights, you know that. Come on, stop messing about, get this gate open.'
The crowd, though good-humoured, grew noisier in support of their impromptu leader, shouting and cheering with increasing vigour. Someone started to bang an iron pot, and others soon followed suit.
The guard dithered for a moment, then with an extravagant gesture of resignation, struggled back through the wicket gate. A moment or two later, after further bumping and rattling, the gate began to swing slowly open. Led by the burly man and his donkeys, the small crowd quickly surged forward into the widening opening. It was a rare event for the Gate Exactor to be absent, and not an opportunity to be missed.
'Thanks, Erryk,’ the burly man shouted as he disappeared through the gate. He pointed to his donkeys. ‘First egg that one of these lays today is yours.'
The guard drove the gate's large bolt into its housing with some venom then looked up at the retreating figure. Waving his fist, he shouted something that was too fast and too colloquial for Arwain to understand, though it was patently not complimentary. Without turning, the burly man raised his hand in friendly acknowledgement.
'And stop calling me Erryk,’ the guard managed irritably, as a parting shot, adding futilely, ‘my name's…'
'Oi!'
Arwain had dismounted and was approaching the guard as this cry rang out. He started, thinking it was addressed to him.
'What d'you think you're doing? You can't do that,’ the voice continued, laden with disbelief and righteous indignation.
Arwain identified the speaker. It was a short, stout individual, running, with some difficulty, towards the gate, and waving his arms. He was panting heavily when he eventually arrived.
'Can't do what?’ the guard said crossly.
'Open the gate,’ the stout man spluttered. ‘Open the gate. You can't do that. That's a gateman's job. I'll … I'll have to report this…'
'Report your over-sleeping while you're at it,’ the guard snapped peevishly. The stout man's chin came out defiantly, but the guard was not to be gainsaid. He levelled an angry, prodding, finger at the gateman. ‘I had half the countryside outside here, threatening hell and all, because you couldn't shift out of your bed. What was I supposed to do? I'm responsible directly to the Council for the peace here, you know, not some sodding Guild contractor. If anyone's reporting anything here, it's going to be me.’ He was beginning to warm to his subject. ‘And that lazy Exac's no better. He…'
Arwain cleared his throat loudly. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said, stepping forward.
The guard stopped and looked up at him.
'You haven't heard the last of this,’ the gateman said spitefully, slipping this blow into the sudden silence, before scurrying off, grumbling to himself.
The guard snarled something after him then turned back to Arwain. ‘Yes?’ he said, frowning a Whendrak welcome at this newcomer.
With an effort, Arwain forced himself to remember Aaken's instructions.
'I'm Arwain, son of Ibris, Duke of Serenstad,’ he said formally. ‘I have letters patent confirming this, and matters that I need to discuss with the leaders of your city. May I have your permission to enter with my escort?'
The guard's mouth slowly sagged open during this speech and, when it was finished, he began to execute a small, agitated dance, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his pike from hand to hand, and turning his head from side to side as if searching for help or escape.
He accompanied this dance with rhythmic stutterings that eventually merged into fairly coherent speech indicating that he didn't know what to do.
And his officer was late … and … the Exactor … and the gateman … and he shouldn't be doing this duty really … he was supposed to be off sick …
He was rescued by the appearance of another guard; the tardy officer, Arwain judged. With a nod the new arrival dismissed the floundering guard into a nearby sentry post, then turned to Arwain inquiringly, at the same time casting a rapid glance over his escort.
Arwain repeated his introduction and request to enter the city.
This time he was successful.
Shortly afterwards, while the rest of the platoon waited in the forecourt of the Council's Meeting House, Arwain and Ryllans were being escorted by a group of guards into the presence of Whendrak's Maeran, the leader of the city's council, and its most powerful citizen.
As was allowed under the treaty, both men were still armed, but the waiting platoon had been obliged to leave its weapons at the city's gate.
Somewhat to Arwain's surprise, the Maeran was quite a short, inconsequential-looking man who exuded none of the power that Arwain had come to expect from leaders of men. Indeed his first impression was that the man looked more like a successful merchant than a politician.
'Sit down, gentlemen,’ he said affably, indicating two chairs. Arwain noted that they faced the window, while the Maeran sat facing them with his back to it. He began to reconsider his first impression of the man.
He bowed. ‘I have letters patent here for your inspection, Honoured Maeran,’ he said, before he sat down. As he pulled out the documents, a large guard quietly appeared in front of him, his hand extended to receive them.
'They'll not be necessary, Lord Arwain,’ the Maeran said, giving the guard a reassuring nod. ‘I recognize you well enough. And this, if memory serves me right, is Commander Ryllans of the Duke's Mantynnai, seconded to your own personal bodyguard.'
Arwain's surprise showed.
The Maeran smiled. ‘I've been to Serenstad many times, Lord,’ he said. ‘I'm well acquainted with the city, the palace, and, at least by sight, your father, yourself and your brothers.'
Arwain looked disconcerted. ‘Honoured Maeran. I'm afraid I've no recollection of a visit by Whendreachi dignitaries ever,’ he said, awkwardly.
The Maeran made a conciliatory gesture. ‘Please, my title's a little cumbersome. My name's Haynar. I'm just a humble merchant,’ he said. ‘I go to Serenstad and many other places simply on matters of trade and business.’ He nodded to himself. ‘It's a marvellous, bustling place. Full of vigour and opportunities, for those who can seize them. Besides, formal receptions aren't to my taste, if I'm honest about it.’ Then he shrugged. ‘And as a neutral city, we like to avoid any actions that could be construed, however wrongly, as being partisan.'
'Do you travel also to Bethlar?’ Arwain risked.
'Oh yes,’ came the unhesitating reply. ‘Though not as much. They do precious little in the way of trading and they aren't the happiest of people to be among.’ He laughed. ‘I don't suppose I should say that really in view of the fact that I'm at least three-quarters Bethlarii myself.’ The man's informality and joviality were infectious, but Arwain carefully avoided relaxing too much. He has seen his father use precisely the same technique to lure information gently from some unsuspecting individual.
'Anyway,’ Haynar continued. ‘I've sprung my little surprise, now perhaps you could spring yours.'
'I have nothing to spring, I hope, sir,’ Arwain said, blandly. ‘I was asked to come here by my father to seek information.’ Briefly he outlined the message that the Bethlarii envoy had brought to Serenstad.
As he spoke, Haynar began to tap his foot agitatedly.
'This is appalling,’ he burst out, when Arwain had finished. He jabbed his forefinger into the arm of his chair. ‘We won't tolerate it. Never again will we allow ourselves to be used as some kind of a pawn in the eternal games that Bethlar and Serenstad play,’ he said fiercely, now very much a leader of men.
Arwain was taken aback. ‘We play no game, sir,’ he said earnestly. ‘You said yourself, our city is a marvellous place, bustling with vigour and opportunity. The only opportunities in war are death and survival, and it was war that the Bethlarii envoy spoke of as a result of what was happening here. If you know Serenstad and its people at all, you know that we seek no war. We'll fight if we have to, but only if we have to, and with every reluctance. That's why I'm here, almost within a day of hearing them, to tell you of the Bethlarii's words and to ask you what truth lies in them, if any.'
Haynar's eyes narrowed. ‘Let's not be naive, Lord,’ he said. ‘There are other opportunities in war. Your brother's factories forge weapons as well as ploughshares and coach wheels. And he's a wild man. War might well suit many of his ends. And you've more than a few problems with some of your people that a war might judiciously alleviate.'
Arwain felt anger flare up inside him. Desperately he forced the image of his father into his mind; his father sitting calmly while the Bethlarii envoy had publicly insulted him. Sitting calmly and prevailing.
Surreptitiously he took a deep breath and released it slowly.
'I can't deny that there's a considerable element of truth in what you say, sir,’ he said, as quietly as he could manage, though it made his tightened jaw ache. ‘But if you feel that is the predominant element, then I must return to my father and confess that I have failed in my mission here, and advise him to send others, perhaps better suited to diplomacy.'
Haynar put his hand to his mouth casually, hiding further his already shaded face. He did not speak.
Arwain made to rise, but Haynar gently motioned him to remain seated. After a long pause, he stood up and walked over to the window.
'Did you notice the work on our walls as you arrived?’ he said, almost absently, after a further pause.
'Yes.'
'Expensive,’ Haynar said, shaking his head. ‘And wasteful. Time, effort, resources. All could be better spent. But we intend to emulate your father, Lord. We intend to be strong.’ He turned to look at Arwain. ‘Neutral,’ he insisted, raising a hand in emphasis. ‘But strong, resolute. Not aggressive.’ He gave a short, grim laugh. ‘The last thing we want is control over others. We're a people shaped through countless generations by the warfare of others and we intend to use the peace that your father began to become a third force in the land. A force that will bind us, Bethlar, Serenstad, all the cities and towns, with a myriad of tiny bonds of trade, trust and blood, so complex and intricate that war will cease to exist as a practical alternative in solving disputes.'
Some merchant! Arwain thought.
'I commend you,’ he said. ‘As would my father, if you would not consider such a commendation to be demeaning.'
Haynar returned to his chair. ‘Wouldn't your father be concerned that such a third power might combine with the Bethlarii to form an army that could take Serenstad's dominions from it as from a child, and then finally sweep the city itself aside?'
Arwain thought for a moment. ‘He would consider it, I'm sure,’ he said, with a slight smile. ‘And he would watch, and listen. Which is no more than he does now. And should he see such a development beginning to occur, then he would ask you about it, probably very straightforwardly. Just as I asked you about the truth in the Bethlarii envoy's claims about the treatment of those they call their people here.'
Haynar raised his emphatic finger again. ‘There are no Bethlarii people here. You know that,’ he said. ‘Nor Serens. There are only Whendreachi. What I just said: the work to the walls, the intention to be strong-this is their will.'
'Your vision though, Honoured Maeran?’ Arwain said.
Haynar nodded. ‘Possibly,’ he replied. ‘But their will nonetheless.'
'Then what did the envoy mean?’ Arwain asked simply. ‘Was he lying? And if so, to what end?'
Haynar leaned forward and frowned. ‘He was and he wasn't,’ he replied. ‘And the end they seek is war, without a doubt, which is why we're accelerating the work on our defences.’ He looked straight at Arwain. ‘But as to why…'
He gave a disowning shrug.
'I don't understand,’ Arwain said. ‘How can he lie and not lie?'
Haynar pulled a rueful face. ‘The same way that I just did,’ he said. ‘It's true there are no native Bethlarii and Serens here, except perhaps for a few who've come here following marriage. But adherence to your two states brings constant trouble to our streets.’ He began to gesticulate as he spoke. ‘Like Serenstad, we have our factions, Guilds, political parties, various cartels of influential people, businesses, malcontents. And where there is such variety there is inevitably confusion, inefficiency, mistrust and, sadly, corruption; and progress towards better times is at best … uneven. Then, the ignorant become impatient. They weave flights of fancy about the possibility of some simple sovereign remedy for all ills being at hand. Some will follow an eloquent and persuasive leader. Others will follow the holy writing of some confounded god or other. They come and go leaving varying amounts of emotional debris behind them, but, at the moment, we are suffering badly from those who, like me, are largely Bethlarii by blood, but who, unlike me, take an over-weaning pride in it and imagine that a return to Bethlarii puritanism and … harsh warrior training … will bring about a new age of prosperity and dignity.'
Arwain nodded. ‘As you say, troublesome factions are not uncommon in Serenstad, too,’ he said. ‘In what way are these people causing special problems?'
Haynar leaned back. ‘They're violent,’ he said bluntly. ‘Very violent. They march through the streets intimidating people, they disrupt Council meetings, Guild meetings, they attack people whom they consider to be “too Serens". And when we take action against them, they send messages off to Bethlar saying we're victimizing them.'
'And has Bethlar replied?’ Arwain asked.
Haynar looked at him and then at a large, old-fashioned time-piece hanging on the wall. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘There's an emergency Council meeting in about an hour. I think you'll find it interesting and informative.'
The Council Chamber was smaller than Arwain had imagined, being used to the large Sened Hall and the even larger hall of the Gythrin-Dy. Nonetheless, it was impressive, with semicircular rows of seats laid out in tiers raking gently down to a raised platform at one end of the hall. The walls were covered with intricately carved wooden panels showing significant scenes from Whendrak's history but, as they were led in, both Arwain and Ryllans found their eyes drawn inexorably upwards. Instead of the smoothly polished wooden beams and plastered ceilings that would grace such a hall in Serenstad and most other cities, the ceiling seemed to grow naturally out of the wall panels and consisted of a complex, interwoven web of tree branches. They were of every conceivable girth, and they rambled their twisting way across the hall and up into an impenetrable darkness without any semblance of regularity of pattern.
Here and there, lamps were hanging from the lower branches, but there were also several shining high up within the labyrinthine structure, so that they looked almost like stars shining down through a forest canopy.
'It's like being under the roots of a great tree,’ Arwain whispered to Ryllans, involuntarily awed by the sight.
Ryllans nodded. ‘Remarkable,’ he said. ‘And an assassin's paradise if there's access to it.'
Arwain shot him a reproachful look, but the official escorting them, unabashed by the remark, said, ‘The only way in is well guarded, sir. It's a long tradition.'
Ryllans bowed in acknowledgement.
'Must you always have such dark thoughts?’ Arwain said to him when the official had left. ‘I've never seen anything like it, and you fuss on about assassins.'
This time it was Ryllans who offered the reproach. ‘I never have dark thoughts,’ he said, smiling a little to show the lie. ‘It is indeed a rare sight. Beautiful, remarkable, intriguing, full of questions … and … an assassin's paradise. If you can't see that, then you're not aware, and if you're not aware, then you can't see the true beauty. Every rose has a thorn.'
Arwain had no reply. He reverted to their interview with Haynar.
'What did you make of the Maeran?’ he asked, settling back in his seat and watching the Councillors arriving.
Ryllans shrugged. ‘Hard to say,’ he answered. ‘Just being Maeran of Whendrak means he's a shrewd, devious, ruthless individual, to say the least. And he's a horse trader. Says as much between his words as he does with them. He told you he knew a lot about you and that you knew nothing about him in his very first sentence.'
Arwain nodded. ‘How did I manage?’ he asked.
'Very well, I'd say,’ Ryllans replied. ‘Your straightforward approach was probably the best response against someone like him. And you certainly won us a hearing, perhaps more, by not losing your temper when he provoked you. We must listen very carefully to what's going on here.'
Arwain looked around and frowned. ‘Listening's one thing, hearing's another,’ he said.
The remark was prompted by the growing noise in the Council Chamber which was now filling rapidly. Much of it consisted of noisy greetings and banter, the latter brought about mainly by the apparently early hour of the meeting.
There was, however, a general air of concern and anxiety about the place, which gradually began to deepen as the Chamber filled.
Little here that he hadn't seen in many a Sened meeting before over some storm in a wine glass, Arwain mused, but, abruptly, the atmosphere changed, becoming suddenly tense and watchful as a group of men entered and, without offering any greeting to anyone, or even looking around, marched directly to their places.
They were dressed identically in grey uniforms and, to a man, their demeanour was arrogant and their expressions emotionless.
'No debate about where they look to find their “sovereign remedy",’ Arwain said, using Haynar's words.
Any further discussion about the newcomers was forestalled, however, by the entrance of Haynar and several others on to the raised platform at the front of the Chamber.
The Chamber fell silent almost immediately, but a formally dressed guard on the platform raised his pike and dutifully struck its butt three times on the wooden floor.
The sound rose into the air and then echoed back down from the branches overhead, greatly magnified. As the sound died away, Haynar rose to speak.
He made little preamble.
'My friends. May I first apologize for the short notice given for this meeting and for its ungodly hour. May I also thank you for your attendance.’ Arwain noticed immediately that his voice was carried evenly across the hall by some quality in the strange ceiling.
Haynar took a document from his gown and laid it respectfully on the lectern in front of him.
'I have here a letter that I received yesterday. I called this meeting as I felt that you should all be made aware of its contents and be given an opportunity to discuss it fully as soon as possible.’ He looked down at the document. ‘It bears a signature that I can't decipher, but the seal is authentically that of the Bethlarii Council of Five, the Handira.'
A murmur rose from the Councillors, but Arwain could not detect the dominant mood in it. He cast a discreet glance at the stern group that had just arrived. They were all sitting bolt upright, as if to lean back would represent some display of weakness or disrespect, confirming his initial impression that they were representatives of those Whendreachi who looked to Bethlar for the answer to such ills as their city suffered. They were all staring fixedly at Haynar.
’”Vassals,” the letter begins,’ Haynar read. He put no inflection into the word, but the murmur rose again, unequivocally angry. He ignored it and continued.
’”It has been made known to us that our citizens living within your bounds are being ill used by your people. They are being deprived of their livelihoods, homes, liberty, right of access to your courts, and, above all, the right to pursue their religious observations. You will cease this persecution immediately and make full reparation of all hurts before the solstice. You will also commence dismantling the new fortifications and defences that you have built about your city. If these instructions are not implemented immediately, then a military governor will be appointed in your stead."'
There was a brief pause after Haynar finished, then uproar broke out. Sitting motionless amid the cries of outrage and anger, Arwain found himself back in Serenstad, standing behind his father as the Bethlarii envoy had approached him in a similar vein.
Haynar did not move or make any attempt to stop the noise for some time, then he nodded to the guard standing nearby.
Once again the guard banged his pike on the floor. The sound rose above the din and echoed down from the tangled branches overhead. It had little effect initially, but at a further nod from Haynar, the guard repeated the action with greater force, and the Chamber fell suddenly silent as the brief tattoo boomed out overhead like thunder.
Arwain and Ryllans exchanged appreciative glances. The Whendreachi Councillors were markedly more disciplined than either the Sened or the Gythrin-Dy.
As the sound faded, a flurry of hands rose into the air, but Haynar ignored them.
'Allow me the first word, my friends,’ he said. ‘I'll be brief.’ He tapped the Bethlarii document. ‘I'll gloss over the tone of this missive, which, frankly, defies me. Let us consider just two facts. One: is it true that any of our citizens are being persecuted? Answer, no. Rather it is that certain factions which seek to take us under Bethlar's grey sway have provoked violence against the persons and properties of those it sees as enemies to its cause; namely those whom they cannot defeat in debate here, in this Chamber. And they have brought to their aid those criminal and deranged elements which plague any community and who care nothing for any cause save violence and destruction. Two: the fortifications we have undertaken were at the agreed will of the great majority here. We are a neutral city under the Treaty between Bethlar and Serenstad and, in this particular, while we do not ally ourselves with either, we may do as we wish.'
Haynar's manner throughout this short speech was calm but resolute, though a snarl of defiance permeated his final sentence. It captured the mood of his listeners and there was a loud burst of applause and cheering.
Haynar waited for it to subside. ‘My friends,’ he began again. ‘It has long been the wish of our people that we should never again be caught between these two great cities and their endless wars. And to this end we have striven to become strong enough to be independent of them both.’ He leaned forward on to the lectern. ‘And we have succeeded, my friends,’ he said slowly but with great power. ‘We have succeeded. We seek nothing but friendliness and trade with all the peoples of this land, be they allied to Bethlar or Serenstad, but we will destroy utterly anyone who turns his sword against us, from within or without.'
More applause greeted this affirmation, but as it faded, a lone voice emerged. It was one of the grey-uniformed group. He was waving his fist angrily.
'Haynar, you lie,’ he shouted. ‘You lie, and you lead this city to perdition with your ambition and folly.'
Cries of protest greeted this outburst.
'No, I will be heard,’ the man went on, shouting louder, his voice echoing raucously from the strange ceiling.
'You'll be heard more clearly if you speak a little more quietly, Garren,’ Haynar said ironically, sitting down and casually extending a hand towards him.
The comment caused some laughter, which did little to improve the man's temper. He raised his fist again. ‘You accuse us of violence against our opponents, but we have only armed ourselves because of the violence that was offered to us in the first place. When we are allowed to meet and worship in peace then we will no longer need this protection. You say we wish to bring the city under the protection of Bethlar. This is another of your lies. Rather it is you who wishes to bring us under the sway of Serenstad.’ His lip curled arrogantly. ‘A city riddled with corruption and decay, and ruled by merchants, Guildsmen, and an effete aristocracy. Whendrak is, by ancient right, a Bethlarii protectorate. Only when we return to that state and to the ways of our ancestors can we begin to root out the decadent and degenerate elements that have brought so many ills upon us, and move forward to our true place in the land.'
Arwain's eyes narrowed in distress at the vehemence in the man's voice.
'Enough!’ Haynar's voice rang out in exasperation as Garren gathered his breath for another onslaught. ‘We've heard all this nonsense before, Garren. You seem to think that if you tell a lie often enough and loudly enough, it will become the truth. Whendrak has been under the sway of both Bethlar and Serenstad many times through its history. Now, by their treaty, we're a neutral city.’ He paused and put his hand to his head in a gesture of concern. ‘Even at this stage my old friendship for you and your family prompt me to offer you a word of personal advice.’ He leaned forward and his voice became unexpectedly passionate. ‘You're a clever, capable man, Garren,’ he said. ‘You must surely see the rabble, the mad dogs, who follow your ridiculous baying, for what they are.’ Garren made to speak, but Haynar lifted a hand to prevent him. ‘Ponder this. How you are going to control them when their usefulness to you has passed? It's far easier to unleash a wild animal than it is to recapture it.'
'I will not listen to my supporters and friends being thus maligned,’ Garren shouted, his voice booming unpleasantly about the Chamber again.
'And I'll not listen to any more of your ranting, Garren,’ Haynar said, his voice softer than Garren's, but somehow overtopping it. He slapped the document lying on the lectern. ‘This is directly due to your treachery…'
He hesitated, and his concern surfaced again briefly. ‘And do you imagine that the Handira give a fig for your petty, crawling obeisance and your ridiculous scheming? The only value that Whendrak has for them is its strategic position as a base to move against Serenstad. They're using you to do their dirty work for them, that's all.’ Anger and frustration burst through into his voice. ‘You're not stupid, man. What do you think the Bethlarii are going to do with you and your troublesome followers? Honour you? Laud you?’ He struck his chest. ‘You know what they think about us with their fatuous tribal pride. We're just so many mongrel half-breeds, marginally superior to their dogs, but fit only for use as slaves and arrow fodder.'
Garren leapt to his feet furiously. ‘Speak for your own kind, Haynar,’ he shouted. ‘We are all pure-born Bethlarii for ten generations…'
'Not according to what my uncle says about your mother, Garren,’ came a voice from somewhere, with a sharp Whendreachi accent. The Chamber erupted in laughter, as much to release the tension built up by Garren's manic utterances as at the humour of the comment.
Arwain watched Garren waving his fist and shouting, though he could hear nothing above the din.
The laughter splashed to and fro for some time until Haynar, smiling himself, eventually managed to wave it to silence.
'I'll waste no more of your time on this pointless debate,’ he said, sobering. ‘You have the facts before you and you must decide upon what we shall do. I ask you to confirm the policy which we have followed these past years. That we will stand firm and oppose anyone who would try to impose their will upon us. To help you in your discussion I have used my authority as Maeran to make a special decree.'
The Chamber became very still. Ryllans nudged Arwain gently and with a slight nod directed his attention back towards Garren and his group. Guards were entering quietly and standing along the aisle behind them.
'We have food and water to sustain us through any siege,’ Haynar went on. ‘Arms to defend ourselves. And above all, newly strengthened walls that soon will repel even the heaviest artillery, the tallest towers, the deepest sappers.’ He paused. ‘But such walls are in truth only as strong as their gates. And gates are only as strong as the man's arm that can draw the bolts. Treachery will be our greatest enemy in any conflict with the Bethlarii.’ He paused again. ‘My decree therefore is that Councillor Andreth Garren be deprived of his office and confined to his house pending formal impeachment and trial. So also his senior lieutenants. And for those of his followers who will not disavow their allegiance to him, and renew their allegiance to this Council, expulsion from the city.'
The guards behind Garren and his group moved forward and one of them bent down and spoke to Garren. Across the Chamber, Arwain saw him casting about as if for help from his fellows or for some route to escape. To no avail, however. After a further word from the guard, he and his entourage rose to their feet and, with returning arrogance, marched out of the Chamber escorted by the guards.
The announcement and the removal of Garren and his followers were greeted by the Councillors with a stunned silence.
As the door closed behind the departing group, Haynar spoke softly but purposefully. ‘Debate what you have heard, my friends,’ he said. ‘And choose well. Freedom and progress, with the responsibility that goes with both; or stagnant Bethlarii overlordship. I will return to hear your will in due course.’ He bowed his head for a moment, then turned and left the platform.
As he left, the silence began to disintegrate around the two watching Serens. At first gradually, then with a great rush like a breaking wave. Several Councillors left the Chamber hastily while all those that remained began talking urgently, and seemingly indiscriminately, to their neighbours on every side.
'Gentlemen.'
Arwain turned. It was the official who had brought them into the Chamber. ‘Would you follow me, please.'
Though his voice was soft, his manner was urgent and Arwain and Ryllans followed him without question.
He led them out of the Chamber by a different door to the one through which they had entered and, as they followed him along passageways and down stairs, Arwain felt an increasing urgency in his pace.
'What's the matter?’ he asked.
'The Maeran will explain,’ the man said, politely.
Then they were walking rapidly down a narrow stone stairway and being ushered into a small courtyard. Their horses were waiting, saddled and ready, along with the platoon and a small group of mounted Whendreachi guards.
Haynar was there also. He stepped forward. ‘You must leave immediately,’ he said. ‘If I'm allowed I shall report your visit to the Council.'
Arwain queried, taken aback by this sudden change in events. He pointed back towards the Council Chamber.
'I thought you were in charge here.'
Haynar smiled ruefully. ‘I am and I am not,’ he replied. ‘The decree I've issued against Garren is a considerable risk…'
'You could have done nothing else,’ Ryllans interrupted unexpectedly.
'You and I know this,’ Haynar said, leading them to their horses. ‘We study our history. But…’ He shrugged. ‘We've got more than a few self-servers and weak-kneed appeasers in the Council. The vote's going to be close. I can't guarantee that we'll stand against Bethlar even though we ought to.'
'Don't you have emergency authority as Maeran?’ Arwain asked, as he mounted his horse.
Haynar smiled again. ‘Garren's a considerable orator. And his followers hold real power on the streets here. My authority's only as effective as my ability to impose it if need arises. As I said in there, our security is no more than the strength of one traitor's arm.'
He waved aside any further debate. ‘You must go now. There's liable to be serious disturbances when the news of Garren's arrest gets out and I can't guarantee your safety. Tell your father what's happening here. Most of us are with you and we'll do our best to oppose Bethlar, but…’ He changed direction. ‘These guards will escort you to the gate. Go now.'
Arwain looked down at him. ‘Do you want our help, Maeran?’ he said significantly, laying emphasis on the last word.
'No, damn it. We want neither of you,’ Haynar said bitterly. ‘But better you than them. And the treaty's going to be no more than smoke in the wind soon if you don't help. But tell your father to be careful. This is just a ploy to some deeper purpose, I'm sure.'
Arwain reached down and took Haynar's hand. ‘I understand,’ he said.
The sound of shouting floated into the courtyard. Haynar nodded. ‘Go,’ he said, then he turned and ran back into the building.
As their escort led them out of the walled courtyard, the truth of Haynar's words became apparent. There was an unmistakable tension in the air. Groups of young men were running about wildly while other people in the street were running to avoid them.
'Ar-Hyrdyn, Ar-Hyrdyn.’ Arwain looked round to see where the chant was coming from.
'Serenstad scum,’ came a cry.
A rock struck Arwain's temple. He slumped forward on to his horse's neck, blood pouring from his head.