Roger Taylor - Whistler

‘You must kill him! Now!’ cried out voices within him, desperately.

But his hand would not move.

Cassraw turned back to his audience. ‘My friends,’ he said, his voice less powerful but filled with emotion, ‘you must forgive me if I am suddenly a little unmanned, but Brother Vredech has rightly sought to question the revelation I have received, and question it sternly. To have him by my side now moves me… more than I can say.’ He paused then held out his arms again. ‘And Brother Vredech’s public reconciliation is yet further testimony to the guiding presence of His hand… ’

‘No!’

The cry, high and shrill, and loaded with frenzied desperation, filled the chamber, crackling through the tension that Cassraw had built and shattering it. There was not one person present who did not start at the sound.

Then all was confusion as everyone sought to see who had cried out. It was not immediately apparent, but Vredech was amongst the first to see who it was as his eye lit on a commotion in the public gallery at the end near the podium.

A figure was clambering over the balustrade.

‘No! No!’ the cry continued frantically.

Vredech recognized the figure. It was Mad Jarry. With a nimbleness that belied his size and his normal lumbering gait, he dropped on to the tiered seats beneath the gallery and began scrambling over them, heedless of the bewildered Heinders in his way.

He was moving towards the podium and Vredech knew his intention even before he heard Jarry’s new cry.

‘No! No! You mustn’t listen! He’s Ahmral! He’s possessed! He came in the darkness! I’ve seen His dreams! I’ve seen His dreams!’

Then he saw that Jarry was wielding a large knife.

At the same time he became aware of Cassraw’s Knights recovering themselves and beginning to move forward to intercept this unexpected threat. To little avail, however. Drawn from Troidmallos’s more troublesome youths, secretly schooled by Yanos at Cassraw’s behest, and hardened at Bredill, they were not unused to violence, but few could have withstood Jarry’s demented charge. Those who came within reach of his massive flailing fists were dashed brutally to one side. A couple managed to seize hold of him, but he paid no heed to them, dragging them along like paper streamers. Another stood directly in front of him only to be lifted bodily and hurled into a group who were running to help him.

And all the time Jarry was crying out.

‘Ahmral! Ahmral! I’ve seen His dreams!’

Vredech, his body trembling again and his mind numb from his failure to strike Cassraw down, watched the whole scene as though it were being performed by street players as a mockingly slow ballet. He saw Cassraw’s mouth dropping open at the sight of this approaching nemesis. He saw Dowinne’s hands rising protectively and he heard her begin to scream. For no reason that he could have analysed, he reached out and seized her, dragging her roughly away from Cassraw and placing himself between her and Jarry.

He heard the words, ‘No, Jarry,’ forming in his throat, but even as the sounds began to emerge he saw Jarry reach Cassraw and drive the knife into him. At the same time Jarry disappeared under a writhing mass of figures, stabbing and beating. Glittering blades, red sashes and bloody gashes began to blur, mingling with the nightmare cacophony of screams and groans, panic-stricken cries and grunts of appalling effort. And the trembling that was shaking his body threatened to master him completely.

Then one sound dominated the others and he became aware of a powerful hand turning him round. His entire vision was filled with Dowinne’s face. Yet it was scarcely recognizable, so contorted with fury was it. Raking through him, he heard, shrieking and awful: ‘Damn you to hell, Allyn. What have you done?’

He gazed at her, shocked and helpless, but almost before he had a chance to register what she was saying, a blow shook his entire body and plunged him into gasping darkness.

In the hasty preparations for the ceremony at the PlasHein, Skynner had been only too willing to agree to Cassraw’s Knights forming the honour guard for their leader. His own men had more than enough to do at the moment and he personally wanted to keep as far away from Cassraw as he could. Thus he was present with only a few Keepers, forming in effect a small honour guard of their own for the Chief Keeper and other senior officers seated in the public gallery.

On seeing Jarry’s reckless descent from the balcony, Skynner’s long-instilled sense of duty had swept aside his misgivings about Cassraw and he dashed immediately for the stairs, a single command bringing his men close behind him. In the few seconds it took them to reach the Debating Chamber, however, Jarry had stabbed Cassraw and been brought down himself. The place was in uproar, with everyone shouting or screaming, half those present trying to flee the chamber while the other half was struggling towards the podium to see what had happened. He had a vivid, kaleidoscopic impression of people being crushed against walls and the fixed furniture, and being trampled underfoot. Even as he watched, he saw bodies tumbling from the public galleries on to the Heinders milling about below. For a moment he was paralysed as memories of the panic in the PlasHein Square flooded back to him. Then the deep fear and anger that he had been nursing since his interview with the Chief and Toom Drommel burst out, releasing him. He could do nothing about the crowd, but he could get to the podium and take charge of whatever was happening there.

This was no easy task, and even though he was not gentle about the matter, it took him and his men some time to shoulder their way through the clamouring onlookers. In the course of this advance, several political worthies received baton blows that took the edge off their curiosity, not the least of these being Toom Drommel, who ‘accidentally’ received a back-swinging elbow just below the arch of his ribcage.

Skynner’s satisfaction at this however, was dampened by the sight that greeted him as he reached the podium. Cassraw, covered in blood, lay on his back. He was not moving. Across him sprawled the equally motionless body of Jarry, his rough tunic covered with blood-streaked rents and gashes. Nearby lay Vredech. Several of the Knights, under the frantic command of Dowinne, were struggling to lift Jarry’s body off that of his victim, while others were just milling around.

As the labouring group finally succeeded and Jarry’s great frame rolled over on to its back with a thud, Skynner grimaced. He had been terribly injured.

Dowinne, seemingly in a state of shock, knelt by her husband and began nursing his head. Skynner reached down and gently took her arm. There was no quiet yielding, however. Dowinne swung round, her free hand lifted with the obvious intention of striking him. Reflexes brought his own arm up to block the blow but immediately the other hand attacked him. Without ceremony, he grasped both her arms and yanked her roughly to her feet.

‘That’s enough!’ he shouted. ‘Remember who you are. This is doing no…’

Before he could finish, a hand had gripped his shoulder and spun him round. He found himself facing the blank mask of one of the Knights. ‘Keep your hands to yourself, unbeliever. No one may touch the Chosen One’s wife. Go down on your knees for forgiveness before her.’ The Knight’s voice was quivering with passion; he held a bloodied knife in his hand.

Skynner recognized the voice and, still in the mood for settling long unfinished business, he seized the hand and twisted it violently. The Knight arched up on to his toes with an incongruous cry then, equally rapidly, began to sink down in response to the agonizing pressure on his wrist. As he did so, Skynner wrenched the mask from his face, and in one swing took the baton from his belt and brought it down on his captive. It was a pitiless blow and Yanos’s body shook the floor as it landed. ‘You keep your hands to yourself, young man,’ Skynner snarled. ‘You’re under arrest for threatening a Keeper with a weapon.’