Caddoran Page 8

The cloud paused and turned. Bowlott straightened as black eyes searched through him. His little eyes reflected the stare back.

  ‘Striker Bowlott,’ Vashnar acknowledged.

  ‘Thank you for your promptness, Commander.’

  Vashnar had Bowlott’s message in his hand; he indicated it significantly. ‘Close of Moot you… ordered… Striker. And Close of Moot it is.’

  Aah. That hesitation. That quiet edge to the voice. Defensive about his position. A useful hint of weakness. A good starting point. Bowlott had to make an effort not to smile. He transformed the muscular impulse into a puzzled frown.

  ‘May I’?’ he asked, reaching for the message. He was reading it and shaking his head as they came to his office.

  Opening the door, he ushered Vashnar into the ante-room ahead of him. The two Pages jumped to their feet, knocking over their board game.

  ‘Page.’ Bowlott’s voice was stern; he waved the paper ahead of him like an irritable moth. ‘One does not order the Senior Commander of the Wardens. By Request, is the ending for such a message. By Request. You should both know this by now.’

  ‘But Striker…’ The protest ended abruptly as a left foot swung rapidly up behind a right leg to deliver a kick without in the least disturbing the kicker’s posture and demeanour.

  ‘I… I apologize, Striker…’ the protestor stammered, accurately reading his friend’s suggestion and just managing to suppress the urge to reach down and massage his bruised leg.

  Bowlott gazed skywards and directed a hand towards Vashnar.

  Increasingly flustered, it took the Page a moment to understand the gesture. ‘I apologize, Commander,’ he managed eventually. ‘I… made a mistake in interpreting the Striker’s message. The blame is mine entirely. No offence was intended.’

  Vashnar gave a non-committal grunt. With a parting glower at the two Pages, Bowlott motioned Vashnar towards the door to his office. The guilty Page rushed to open it, knocking the spilt remains of the board game across the floor on his way.

  As he closed the door behind the two men, he simultaneously grimaced, bent down to rub his leg and mouthed a silent oath to be shared equally between Bowlott and his companion. Still rubbing his leg, he hopped over to join his friend, now standing by the voice tube, his expression gleeful.

  Though the deep, tunnel-like doorway was high enough to accommodate him comfortably, Vashnar could do no other than stoop as he passed through it. The urge to remain stooped stayed with him as he emerged from the cave entrance into the heart of the Striker’s world. The lamplit pallor, the grey oppression, the faded but almost total disorder, heightened by the occasional splash of tidiness, all conspired to ignite long-forgotten memories of childish dreams when suffocating walls and ceiling would close around him until he jerked violently awake, shouting and gasping and beating the bedclothes. Though transient, the impression was disturbing and for a moment Vashnar could not move. Bowlott, still flushed with noting the Commander’s sensitivity about his position, and his success in transferring the blame to the Pages, did not notice this demonstration of a far greater weakness.

  All signs of Vashnar’s momentary discomfiture had vanished by the time Bowlott reached the central massif. He picked up a chair and placed it on the same side of the desk as his own. This would demonstrate his awareness of their equal status and further deflect blame for the ‘By Order’. Vashnar looked at the chair warily before he sat down; it creaked uneasily under his bulk. The sound made him cast an equally wary glance around the over-burdened shelves as though it might signal the onset of a catastrophic avalanche of books and papers.

  Bowlott misinterpreted the movement. ‘You’ve never had the pleasure of coming to my den, have you, Commander?’ He retraced Vashnar’s glance around the room smugly. ‘It rarely fails to impress. The collected wisdom of the Moot gathered here. Statutes, debates, precedents, modes of proceeding… everything is here. The heart of the government of Arvenstaat. The wisdom of the past enshrined for the guidance of the future.’

  Vashnar had difficulty in not sneering outright. Part of him still wanted to choke. Dust, paper, disorder on a scale he’d scarcely have thought possible outside a natural disaster… This could well be a metaphor for the way the Moot ran the country. And, continuing it, an inadvertent spark – perhaps from one of these lanterns – could end it all.

  And out of the ashes…

  He dismissed the thought quickly. Just as Bowlott did not know him, so he did not know Bowlott other than by repute and through largely formal contacts. Whatever else he might seem to be, this fat clown now beaming proprietorially at him would be crafty and capable, and quite probably ruthless in his own way. There was no saying how he might read a man.

  ‘It’s impressive indeed,’ he said, confining himself to the comparatively safe ground of the truth. ‘A marked contrast to my own office.’

  Bowlott nodded understandingly. ‘Yes, I imagine. The world of the man of action… austere,’ he said, just avoiding the word ‘simple’ at the last moment. ‘Constantly dealing with the immediate – with the misdeeds of the bad and the foolish. While we here must struggle with the more ponderous responsibilities of guiding the state through the years.’

  Idiot. Get to the point.

  There was a brief, awkward silence, then Bowlott leaned forward confidentially.

  ‘Still, Commander, I’ve not asked you here to discuss our respective obligations. We both know what they are. Under your capable leadership, the Wardens fulfil their duties admirably, leaving the Moot free of disturbance to fulfil its duties in turn. Generally speaking, all is as it should be.’ He gave a reluctant shrug. Seeing no other choice he would have to plunge right in. ‘However, your declaration of the Death Cry has unfortunately caused… ripples.’ He raised a protective hand before Vashnar could respond. ‘I appreciate that your action was perfectly in order. There’s no difficulty there. The Cry has never been a matter for the Moot, nor would any of us wish it to be. But the Death Cry, Commander – and against fellow Wardens.’ He allowed himself raised eyebrows. ‘I’m sure you’re more aware than I am of the stir that it’s caused – a stir that’s now spread so far as to be felt even here. Hence my request for our unprecedented meeting.’ As was usually the case, once he had started talking, the way ahead became clearer. ‘To be honest, I’d thought the Death Cry moribund. I’ve never known it used before, but…’ He gave a dismissive wave. ‘My ignorance of such matters is of no consequence. Obviously you chose to use it because some extremely serious offence had been committed, but I felt that in the light of such seriousness, perhaps the Moot might be able to play a part in helping you resolve the affair.’

  Vashnar shifted a little, making his chair creak again. Had Bowlott’s opening remarks been in any way challenging to his authority, he would have had no compunction in discreetly telling him to mind his own affairs and walking away. The Moot was nothing without the Wardens to implement its will and no consequence would follow from such an action. He saw now however, that he had underestimated Bowlott’s ability to slither around events – a foolish mistake. A deep self-anger threatened to stiffen his jaw. It was a pillar of Vashnar’s vision of himself that he never did anything without careful thought and meticulous planning. So what in the name of sanity was he doing, making such an elementary error of judgement? It served only to compound the other foolish mistake he had made recently – the real cause of his anger – the proclaiming of the Death Cry against Thyrn and, worse, Hyrald and the others. It took him some effort to force the clamouring questions into silence and he achieved it only by making the resolution that this day – once he was free of this dust-choked lair – he would gather together his every personal resource, scattered since all this had started, and determine precisely why he had done what he had done. Then, and only then, could he set about reconstructing the plans of years which he had so strangely jeopardized.

  He felt an ironic twinge of gratitude towards Bowlott. Had the wretched little man not inadvertently
forced the issue, it is possible that he might not have steeled himself to this task until far worse consequences had ensued. And theywould have ensued, beyond any doubt! Now there was merely the immediate problem of dealing with Bowlott’s insinuating inquiry.

  ‘I understand your concern, Striker Bowlott,’ he began. ‘And I appreciate your offer of assistance. Moot and Wardens are rather like draught horses…’ Quoting the Treatise, eh? Bowlott thought, more than a little surprised. ‘Independently, yet together, we draw the state along evenly and smoothly.’ Vashnar risked extending Akharim’s analogy. ‘But sometimes the road is…’ He hesitated.

  ‘A little uneven?’ Bowlott offered incongruously.

  Vashnar shook his head. ‘Worse than that. The road is no longer there. Swept away. Gone.’

  Bowlott blinked and stared.

  ‘Then one of us has to continue alone. Find a new way.’ Like Bowlott before him, Vashnar was gathering confidence now that he had started. ‘This is what has happened here. I can’t tell you more at the moment, because I don’t yet have the full measure of it – not yet found my way, as it were. Certain matters – Warding matters – have still to be resolved. But suffice it that something of the utmost seriousness has indeed happened and I shall advise you fully about it as soon as I can.’ He let out a resigned breath. ‘I’m afraid there’s no way in which the Moot can help. I’m sorry if the incident has caused problems for any of the Senators, but please assure them that the matter is being pursued with the utmost vigour, and I’ve every hope that it will be concluded very shortly.’

  Used to equivocation, Bowlott saw that he had done sufficient for the moment. That Vashnar was sitting in his office saying anything at all about the Death Cry made a strong enough point for the time being. The Commander now knew that the Moot had taken an active interest in his actions and that eventually, one way or another, he would have to give an account of them.

  ‘That’s most reassuring, Commander,’ Bowlott said, standing up. ‘I’ll pass it along to those Senators who’ve been asking about it, and we’ll all look forward to your reporting on the matter in due course.’

  Slightly unsettled by Bowlott’s abrupt abandonment of the questioning, Vashnar also stood up. The chair let out a squeal of relief.

  ‘Once again, my thanks for taking the time to come and discuss this with me, Commander. I appreciate it. You will remember to call on me at any time if you feel there’s anything the Moot can do to assist, won’t you?’ Bowlott’s arm directed Vashnar towards the cave entrance.

  The two Pages were at their desks and working with studied diligence as Bowlott escorted Vashnar silently through the ante-room.

  Walking through the corridors of the Palace, Vashnar felt strangely detached – his mind in one place, his body in another. The encounter with Bowlott had been no problem, but that dreadful room seemed to have numbed him. It was indeed like the heart of the government of Arvenstaat. Grey-edged, decaying and subtly menacing in its disorder, its nightmare quality hung about him. It confirmed the rightness of his own long-planned intentions, intentions already made more urgent now with increasing rumours of the Morlider islands appearing along the coast and hints of invasions from Nesdiryn in the west.

  By an irony which eluded him, it was a diplomatic visit to Nesdiryn which had crystallized a long-felt dissatisfaction into a clear determination. He had merely glimpsed the two strange brothers who had ousted the Count, though their disturbing presence had been almost tangible as they scuttled through an audience chamber surrounded by their equally strange entourage. He had, however, met their Lord Counsellor Hagen and seen the Citadel guards and been impressed, almost over-awed, by both: Hagen, a powerful, frightening presence, single-mindedly ruthless in his determination to fulfil the will of his masters and to bring order to the land; the Citadel guards efficient and unquestioningly obedient and in conspicuous control of the streets.

  Hagen it was who had given him the ring he now wore on his right hand. ‘The Lords have noticed you, Commander,’ he had said, fixing him with a penetrating gaze that Vashnar had had difficulty in meeting. ‘They see things far beyond the sight of others, but even I can see you are one of us.’ He leaned forward, the intensity of his gaze redoubling. ‘Our time is coming. Above all things, there shall be order.’ The quotation from his grandfather’s Commentaries made Vashnar start despite himself.

  How…?

  Before he could speak, Hagen had taken his hand and was placing the ring on his second finger. ‘They offer you this gift. It is very special. It has been crafted to their design and their spirit enshrined in it will keep them ever watching over you.’

  Circumstances had allowed Vashnar to make only a formal expression of thanks, but the gift and Hagen’s manner had had a profound effect on him. The ring itself was simple and exactly to his taste, in so far as any form of personal adornment was to his taste. A stout black band held a small crystal set in a plain, highly polished, background. It fitted perfectly and he had worn it ever since. The thought of removing it unsettled him in ways which he felt ambivalent about and, after a while, the idea stopped occurring to him. Occasionally, when alone, he would stare at it. He thought that from time to time the crystal changed colour slightly – now faintly green, now blue, now clear – but it was the polished background that held him. It reflected images more clearly than any mirror he had ever seen, and years of wearing the ring had never diminished this. Once, standing in front of a mirror and casually raising a hand to his forehead, the ring had reflected itself and, for an instant, he had seemed to see an infinitely deep well opening before him. It was full of lights and sounds and voices – calling out to him, reaching for him. The vision was gone as quickly as it had appeared and, just as quickly, he dismissed it.

  Since that time, albeit for no apparent reason, the borders with Nesdiryn had gradually closed and the already infrequent diplomatic exchanges had been replaced by rumours carried by random travellers. Nevertheless, the memory of Hagen lingered powerfully with Vashnar and he continued to wear the ring.

  He was thinking about Hagen and gently rubbing his thumb over the ring as he found himself entering his own office. He paused as he closed the door behind him, suddenly aware that he had no recollection of his journey after leaving Bowlott. He frowned and tried to recall the route he had followed, but nothing came. He had no memory of the long corridors, the stairs, the hallways, the people who would have stepped aside from him. There was just his formally polite parting from Bowlott, then nothing – only emptiness – until he was here. His frown deepened. None too soon had he made the resolution to pull himself together, to review the events that he had set in train and that seemed to be slipping away from him. The grey cobwebs from Bowlott’s room formed around his mind. He shook his head to clear it, then, opening the door slightly, called out to his aide, ‘See that I’m not disturbed!’

  The cobwebs returned, weighing in on him. Breathing heavily, he sat down at his desk. He was aware of his hands moving two writing tablets a little, then moving them back again to their original positions.

  But they were a long way away…

  At the end of a tunnel.

  The cobwebs returned, closing over his eyes. Tighter and tighter, darker and darker.

  Vashnar’s fingers, resting on the desk, fluttered as if trying to brush them away, then his head slumped forward.

  Chapter 7

  Darkness.

  Only darkness.

  He was alone in it. He was it.

  Darkness; motionless, yet rushing, tumbling, carrying all with it.

  From nowhere, to nowhere, circling and spiralling. Forever.

  Ever?

  Time did not exist here.

  Here? Nor was there here, or there.

  Endings were beginnings; beginnings, endings. All things were one.

  And nothing.

  Yet terror was all about him. His…

  And not his?

  A wordless cry formed. It went rippling through th
e darkness, struggling with it.

  For it did not belong. Nothing belonged. This place should not be, could not be…

  Place?

  This was all places, no places.

  Darkness.

  Nothing.

  Nothing, and the terror, like cobwebs, folding and stirring the darkness, reaching through it, wrapping around it, clinging, choking.

  And him. An awareness that knew itself now as Vashnar, though the knowledge rang emptily and without meaning. The cobwebs drifted apart at the touch of the terror that was his, a black wind amid the darkness.

  What is this place?

  Where is this place?

  The questions too were meaningless. But they could do no other than be asked, just as the far-distant hands that were not his could have done no other than unnecessarily order his desk.

  When had that happened?

  He should know, but…

  Other questions, darker ones, hovered.

  Who am I?

  What am I?

  They must not be asked. They could not be answered. Not here. For cobwebs would surely leak into the emptiness that would follow. And then…?

  The darkness was ringing with the terror that was beyond doubt not his. Shrill and mindless like that of a child alone in the dark, save for the deep and cruel knowledge that had been laid down in ancient days when unseen and terrible hunters were always stalking beyond the light, at the edge of the vision.

  Its call stirred its own kind within Vashnar, but he forbade it any rein. That much of him was tremblingly whole now. And this was not the cry of a child, for though it carried no words, no sign, he recognized it. It had touched him before, scattering everything that had bound his life together. Leading him to confusion and doubt. Bringing him to this.

  Rage filled the darkness.

  Thyrn!

  The fear poured into him.

  ‘Leave me be, demon, leave me be.’

  Thyrn!

  ‘Blood, fire, glittering blades, horror, mark your path. Let me be. Let me be free.’