Since his journey to the Gretmearc, Hawklan had ceased to be surprised by his knowledge of places that should have been strange to him. It was intriguing, as were many other aspects of his life, but with so much mystery surrounding him he knew that nothing was to be gained from arbitrary questioning. His approach was prag-matic. The knowledge was there and it was indisputably useful, and that would have to suffice for the time being.
However, as he travelled across Fyorlund with his Mathidrin escort, an uneasiness began to seep into that very knowledge-an uneasiness that deepened pro-foundly as they neared Vakloss.
The City seeped into view as they travelled through Fyorlund’s relatively flat and fertile central plain. At first it was exposed and hidden alternately by minor features in the landscape but, as they drew nearer, it began to dominate the surrounding countryside.
It was built on a great isolated hill and its towers and high buildings, culminating in the towering edifice of the Palace at its central and highest point, topped it like a many-pointed crown. Hawklan realized that he knew the country, but not the City. But even his knowledge of the country was… dark… fearful?
The Palace was no Anderras Darion, but it soared majestically above the City’s lesser buildings, although these also were of no mean worth: Vakloss had been built by craftsmen of great skill. It seemed to Hawklan, however, that the splendour was inappropriate. This place troubled him. It was a focus for something dark inside him.
‘You’ve no cities as fine as this in Orthlund, I’ll wa-ger,’ said the Mathidrin Captain, riding to his side. Hawklan started out of his reverie and stared about foolishly for a moment. The Captain’s tone had an unpleasant edge and reflected his continuing uncer-tainty about Hawklan, but Hawklan ignored the inflection and took the comment as if it had been a pleasantry.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘we’ve no cities in Orthlund. Only villages. I’ve never seen a city before. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live in one. It seems to be rather a strange idea, but I suppose if you’ve a great many people in your land, then the ways in which you live together will inevitably be different from ours.’ The Captain smiled uncertainly. Hawklan’s constant willingness to accede to his boastful assertions about Fyorlund unsettled him, left him off balance. There was nothing there for him to argue about or defend. He had the feeling that he was both winning and losing at the same time.
‘I find it strange to imagine a country that’s only farms, countryside and villages,’ he said weakly.
Hawklan smiled. ‘That probably means we’re both victims of our histories,’ he said. ‘Tell me, how old is Vakloss?’
The Captain frowned. This man asked the strangest questions. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he replied. ‘It’s always been there.’
‘Always?’ said Hawklan, raising his eyebrows hu-morously and fixing the Captain with his green-eyed stare. The man avoided the gaze by looking back and rebuking one of his men for some non-existent offence.
‘Always?’ repeated Hawklan, turning to the front again.
The Captain looked embarrassed. This man had an unnerving way of drawing confidences from people. ‘Learning’s not encouraged in the Mathidrin,’ he said brusquely. ‘And too close an interest in the past would be viewed very suspiciously. We’re told it’s just been one long tale of abuse of the people by the Lords and the Geadrol, and treachery against the Kings. It’s our job to put it right, not debate it.’
Hawklan raised a placatory hand. ‘Just an innocent question, Captain,’ he said. ‘It looks such a splendid sight I was naturally interested in who would build such a place.’
Mollified, the Captain volunteered, ‘When I was a kid, they used to say it was built after the First Coming. I suppose that just means it’s very old and no one really knows.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘It’s certainly very old, but… ’ his voice tailed off. A dark swirling and roaring surged round him and he heard a distant, failing, trumpet call. A sense of horror overwhelmed him and he felt a cry of unbearable despair forming inside him.
‘But?’ The Captain’s voice brought him back to the day’s sunshine.
Hawklan shook his head apologetically. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
Reining his horse back discreetly, the Captain fell behind Hawklan slightly, so that he could study him again.
Tall and straight, Hawklan rode his splendid black horse with an ease that the Captain had only seen before in Queen Sylvriss. He was relaxed and easy in everything he did and almost always good-humoured and acquies-cent. But, nevertheless, he gave the impression of being very much his own man; unassailable. And, deep inside, the Captain sensed that to provoke him to anger-no, that somehow, would be unlikely-but to provoke him to violence, would be to risk a very swift death. That bow. That sword. Those damned green eyes. The man gave him the creeps. It came to him abruptly that he had similar feelings when near the Lord Dan-Tor. He would be glad when he was back in the City. Ambition or no, people like that were best avoided.
The Captain consoled himself with his assessment of Isloman. Big, powerful, easily a match for several men. Superficially affable, but with his eyes ever watchful and unable to hide their suspicion. Easier to provoke than his companion if need arose, Isloman was more… normal. That was it. He was more normal than Hawklan.
On the whole, he thought, he’d done the right thing giving them an escort and coming along himself. He couldn’t see how any reproach could be levelled at him for that. If it transpired they were unimportant then he’d been sensibly cautious, while if they were impor-tant then his action would be duly noted.
Certainty, however, continued to elude him, and he eased his horse forward to come by Hawklan’s side again. On reflection, he thought, the man’s not quite like Dan-Tor. He’d helped two of the horses that went lame, and very effectively, too. And he’d pitched in with the work in their overnight camps. Then, of course, he’s bound to behave like that if he’s looking to make a favourable impression.
‘What’s that smoke, Captain?’ Hawklan’s voice broke into his reverie. Screwing up his eyes against the summer glare, he followed Hawklan’s extended arm. As if aspiring to join the soaring towers and spires of Vakloss, a single column of dense black smoke was rising from the City.
‘A celebration perhaps?’ offered Hawklan.
The Captain shook his head. ‘No,’ he said definitely. ‘But I don’t know what it is. Probably a house fire.’
‘It’s a big one, Captain,’ said one of the men. ‘Look how high it’s going.’
The Captain nodded and then shrugged. ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do.’ He laughed harshly. ‘I’m sure someone knows it’s there.’ This shaft of wit seemed to go down well with the men but, as they rode on, the smoke grew more dense and all eyes were fastened on it.
The party became very quiet, disturbing the country stillness only with the sound of lightly treading hooves and the soft creak and clatter of tackle and arms. Abruptly, the rising column of smoke seemed to gather momentum and, disregarding the vagaries of the rooftop breezes, began to billow upwards relentlessly, until it was well above the Palace towers. Soon it was dominating the entire sky in front of them.
‘That’s no house fire,’ someone said hoarsely, mir-roring all their thoughts.
Hawklan realized he was craning back his head to see the top of the column. Faintly a distant sound reached him. ‘Quiet,’ he said, raising his hand and reining his horse to a halt.
Without thinking, the Captain halted the troop as if the order had been passed to him by a senior officer. The group stood motionless and silent as if paying homage to the towering manifestation before them. Across the intervening fields a confused jumble of sounds mingled with the birdsong and the hissing of the gently waving trees. Hawklan’s hand remained in the air. Then, quite distinctly, the rapid tolling of a bell reached them. The urgency of its tone galvanized the Captain.
‘It’s the General Alarm,’ he said, almost in disbelief. For an instant he looked flustered. He gave Hawklan and Isloman a worried look then, turning his horse around to face his men, he shouted, ‘You three, no, you five, escort the envoys into Vakloss. Straight to the Palace and notify the Lord Dan-Tor of their arrival. The rest of you come with me at the gallop.’ Then, to Hawklan, ‘I’m sorry, but if the General Alarm’s being sounded, something serious must’ve happened. We have to ride to it as fast as we can. These men will escort you safely to the Palace.’ And then he was gone, together with the rest of his patrol, leaving the seven men staring after them through the dust they were raising.
Hawklan looked round at his reduced entourage. The past few days had taught him a great deal about the Mathidrin and, sadly, this confirmed what he had learned from his encounter with Urssain and Aelang. They were for the most part loutish and brutal, caring little for the animals they rode, nothing for the terrain they lived off, and precious little for the people they had encountered on their journey. Hawklan suspected that it was only his presence that had saved the animals and some of the villagers they had met from casual acts of gratuitous violence-sadism even. Admittedly they were well disciplined, but it was a discipline patently derived from fear. Such glimmers of intelligence as he had seen were heavily larded with cunning and dedicated to self-interested opportunism. It had been hard to keep his feelings to himself. Now, he did not feel disposed to accept the authority of this frayed remnant.
‘If that fire’s as big as it looks, there’ll be a lot of people hurt and needing help. Quickly now,’ he said authoritatively. ‘You two lead the way. Full gallop.’ The men hesitated. Hawklan glared at them. ‘Quickly, I said,’ he repeated menacingly with a flick of his head in the direction of the City. He could almost see the men’s reflexes crushing their doubts. Fear is an important key with these people, Hawklan reminded himself again.
Sylvriss burst into the room unannounced. ‘Lord Dan-Tor. What is this? What’s happening?’
Dan-Tor, tall and very still, was standing at the win-dow, staring out at the smoke rising high above the City. His gaze was baleful and, as he turned to face his Queen, a lingering residue of malevolence hung in his eyes like morning frost reluctant to obey the sun’s bidding. Sylvriss almost started under the impact of this look, but neither her face nor her posture showed any sign of alarm. Resolutely she reminded herself that this was the true nature of the man, and she forgot it at her peril.
‘With your permission, Majesty,’ he said, indicating Urssain and a group of other senior Mathidrin officers standing stiffly by. Sylvriss nodded her consent.
‘You have your orders,’ he said curtly. ‘I want the fire and the people under control with maximum dispatch. And I want the ringleaders taken alive if possible. There’s more to this than a spontaneous outburst. Dismissed.’
The men saluted and, after bowing to the Queen, left as stiffly as they had stood.
‘Lord Dan-Tor, what’s happening?’ the Queen re-peated as the door closed.
‘Majesty,’ said Dan-Tor, his face now more com-posed. ‘I’m afraid a small number of troublemakers have started a disturbance over in the west of the City. Unfortunately they’ve also started that.’ He indicated the view from the window.
Sylvriss went to the window and stared up at the towering column of smoke. ‘The King nearly saw it,’ she said anxiously. ‘I managed to get him to a room on the other side. He’s asleep now.’
Dan-Tor nodded solicitously, his eyes indifferent.
‘What is it that’s burning?’ Sylvriss continued.
‘One of my workshops,’ Dan-Tor replied.
‘But that smoke. So black, so dense, and that awful smell.’
Dan-Tor did not reply.
‘Who would do such a thing?’ Sylvriss asked, turning away from the window.
Dan-Tor allowed himself a small sigh of resignation, just sufficient to reach but not overstep the bounds of insolence. ‘Majesty,’ he said. ‘The Geadrol was sus-pended because enemies within were weakening us. We have the leaders of those enemies in our hands, but their followers, those they’ve deceived, are still at large, working their will.’
‘Surely the Lord Eldric and the others wouldn’t sanction such… ’ She gestured to the window, ‘such destruction?’
Dan-Tor gathered some documents together. ‘Maj-esty, my evidence tells me so.’
For a moment the Queen considered arguing the point, but changed her mind. Conflict with Dan-Tor at this point would serve no useful purpose, and he was in an odd mood. With a distressed look on her face, she turned back to the window and stared out again at the rising column of smoke. Then, looking down, she saw large numbers of Mathidrin, mounted and on foot, in the courtyard below. A faint spark of an idea formed in her mind. It threw its dim light on plans that she and Dilrap had laid. Plans laid mainly to allay the frustration of their impotence, but thorough for all that.
‘What are the Mathidrin doing?’ she asked.
Dan-Tor put his hand to his head. ‘Majesty, I’m afraid the disturbance is a large one. I suspect that there may be disaffected High Guards involved. It will have to be stamped out quickly and effectively or we may have serious and widespread violence to deal with.’
Before Sylvriss could speak, there was an urgent knocking at the door.
‘Enter,’ said Dan-Tor. The door opened immediately and a young Mathidrin trooper marched in. His face was blackened and a livid red graze above his right eye glistened painfully. His uniform was scuffed and crumpled, and he was breathing heavily. Saluting, he handed two notes to Dan-Tor whose face darkened as he read them.
Bad news, I trust, thought Sylvriss. Then, aloud, ‘Lord Dan-Tor. I can see you’ve the matter well in hand. I must return to the King. I’ll not disturb you further.’
Dan-Tor looked up. ‘Majesty,’ he acknowledged offhandedly.
Sylvriss turned and walked to the door ignoring the slight implicit in his tone. An odd mood indeed. As she passed the young Mathidrin she said, ‘Young man, when the Lord Dan-Tor has finished with you, go and have that gash attended to.’ The Mathidrin saluted smartly and there was a brief look of gratitude in his eyes.
Once outside the room, Sylvriss moved quickly to one of the upper rooms of the Palace. Throwing open a window, she leaned out and listened. Alongside the column of dense black smoke, another, equally dense, but of a deathly white hue, was rising. She could both hear and feel muffled concussions in the distance. What in the world has he got in those workshops? she thought. The man pollutes everything he touches.
Faintly, she could hear another sound coming from the same direction. Eventually she identified it as people shouting. Not in fear or alarm, but in anger. A great many people shouting. Dan-Tor’s disturbance must be a full-blown riot, she realized, though she found it almost impossible to conceive the Fyordyn, with their painstak-ing patience, resorting to such indiscriminate violence.
The tainted summer breeze blew her hair across her face and she swept it to one side. At the same time, the spark of the idea she had had flared up brightly, filling her mind with an uneasy mixture of excitement and fear. She craned further out of the window and peered down into the courtyard far below. It was seething black with Mathidrin, as were most of the streets she could see.
She looked intently at a marching column and then superimposed the image on those gathered in the courtyard. A quick calculation confirmed her earlier, more subjective impression formed in Dan-Tor’s room. Almost the entire City garrison was being committed to deal with this minor disturbance.
Her informants in the City had mentioned nothing of any planned disruption, but she was inclined to agree with Dan-Tor’s assessment that this was not a sponta-neous outburst.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she whispered to herself. Any Mathidrin remaining in the Palace would probably be guarding the gate. The Westerclave would be virtually empty.
She took a deep breath to quieten her racing pulse, but it had little effect. Reaching into her pocket, her moist hand closed around the cold key which she had kept with her since Dilrap had given it to her. Two images merged in her mind. One, of the Mathidrin officer she had knocked over for maltreating a horse, and the other, that of her father’s face smiling anxiously when, unusually for one so young, she had been made a junior messenger towards the end of the Morlider War. ‘Nothing worth doing’s easy, girl, and some chances only come once.’ The memory tipped the scale for her.
She waited a little longer, carefully watching the comings and goings below. The sounds in the distance grew louder, and eventually the courtyard below became still except for a few guards by the gates and the arrival of the occasional messenger. Now, she thought. Now.
Clattering along corridors and down stairs, it came to her suddenly that even if she were able to release the Lords, they would have difficulty in escaping the Palace. She swept the thought away. There was no time for detailed planning. This was pure risk and dependent on speed above all. Besides, there was havoc out there. Who knew what other opportunities might arise? And the Palace was a big place.
Gently she opened the door of her chamber. Rgoric was still asleep, an open book on his lap. Softly she tiptoed across the room to an alcove where she kept some of her outdoor cloaks.
‘Sylvriss.’
She froze. It was the King’s voice. Oh no, my love, she sighed inwardly, not now. He would want to talk. Sometimes he needed reassurance when he was awakened suddenly. She screwed her eyes tight shut and bit her lip, torn between his need and the opportunity that fate had placed in her hands. Composing her face into a smile, she turned round and looked at him.
He was still asleep. ‘Sylvriss,’ he said again, shifting slightly in the chair. The heavy book on his lap started to slide. Without thinking, she strode forward and scooped it up just before it hit the floor. She dared not breathe as she placed the book gently on a nearby table and walked back to the alcove.
Minutes later, she was moving silently along the lower corridors of the Palace towards the Westerclave. Dressed in the plain grey cloak and hood that she sometimes used when she wanted to pass unnoticed in the City, she flitted through the shadows, walking as normally as she could to avoid attracting attention.
Just one of the maids, she repeated to herself. Just one of the maids. But the hiss of her clothes and the muffled pad of her soft shoes sounded like thunder to her.
Eventually she came to a door which would lead into the cellars. For a moment she hesitated with her hand on the latch. The Palace was deafeningly quiet. She had seen no Mathidrin, and such servants and officials as were about seemed for the most part to be gathered in the upper rooms watching the distant fire, but once through this door she would have no excuse for being where she was. Each step forward from now would be a step nearer to exposure. Then, gripping the latch tightly, she pushed the door open and stepped into the cool stillness of the cellar.
She had never been in the Palace’s extensive cellars before, but she had studied plans found for her by Dilrap and had frequently travelled this route in her mind, never realizing that it might actually come to pass. The difference between the flat sketches and the solid reality, however, gave her a frightening jolt, and it took her a little while to relate the images she had seen to the gloomy array of walls and passages now facing her. With an effort she forced herself to be calm and, after agonizing minutes, she reached the door she wanted. The door through into the cellars of the Westerclave.
Now, Dilrap, she thought, let’s see if you’ve kept your promise. The promise that this door, lurking in an unused part of the cellar, would be unlocked against the possibility of this plan being put into operation. Tongue protruding between her teeth, she gently eased the latch and pushed the door.
It did not move. A reproach formed in her mind but she dismissed it guiltily. Please let it open, she prayed, then, grimacing anxiously, she put her shoulder against the door and pushed harder. It moved abruptly and the bright light of the Westerclave burst through the narrow crack. She closed the door quickly and leaned her forehead against it nervously. Spreading out Dilrap’s sketches in her mind she went over the final part of her route again. First right, second left, first left, third door on the right. Each step taking her nearer to the more used parts of the cellar.
Then, cautiously opening the door again and screw-ing up her eyes against the increased brightness, she peered down the long passage in front of her.
It was empty.
She reached into her pocket and felt the two objects there. The key to the Lords’ cell and her old Muster knife. Whether either of them would be of any use to her remained to be seen. She had few illusions about her ability to use the knife against a Mathidrin guard if she were caught and could not talk her way out, but…
With a last deep breath, she stepped out of the gloom and into a final commitment.
Heart racing, she walked her memorized route in long, quiet strides. Just one of the maids. Just one of the maids. It kept other thoughts at bay a little but offered little real solace. No maids ever came to the Westerclave cellars.
At each junction she paused and listened before turning the corner. No echoing voices or sounds of movement added to her terror. What can be happening in the City to have emptied this place so totally? she thought.
Then she was at the door to the Lords’ cell. Carefully she eased back the two heavy bolts and, with trembling hands, fumbled the precious key from her pocket. Her hand was shaking so much that she had to seize it with the other to still it sufficiently to insert the key in the lock. The clatter of the key against the keyhole seemed to be deafening. As she was about to turn the key, a shadow fell across her. She felt the blood drain from her face and instinctively she jerked her hood further forward. Turning round she found herself looking into the cold, grim eyes of three Mathidrin.