Roger Taylor: Caddoran

‘Yes.’

‘Well, tell Vashnar – tell everyone – the truth. Don’t lie about anything. And tell him we’re going north, but that we’ll be back, and looking for justice when we come. Do you understand?’

Oudrence nodded.

Hyrald answered an unasked question. ‘And don’t blame yourself for what happened to your companions. They were experienced men, they knew what they were doing and the risks they ran. They misled you and you were lucky not to get killed along with them.’ He turned to Endryk. ‘You can show him the way?’

‘I’ll have to take him part of the way.’

‘How long will you be?’

‘A few hours.’

Hyrald thought for a moment. ‘Take one of the horses,’ he said. ‘We’ll be ready to leave when you get back. I want to make as much progress as possible today.’

Thyrn rubbed his hands excitedly. Endryk and Oudrence had been gone some time.

‘West along the coast for about four days, he said. Then across the river and we’ll be there – safe.’

Hyrald thought for a moment then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking. We can’t go on like this. We should go west along the coast, but only until we reach the Karpas Mountains. Then south. Back to Arvenshelm.’

Apart from two doors, recessed so deeply into the walls that they looked like darkened cave entrances, Bowlott’s office was bounded, floor to ceiling, by shelves. Crooked and bowed by their long service to the Moot, they loomed ominously over the room. Peering over their tilting edges were books and documents of all shapes and sizes; weighty tomes, slender volumes, wax-sealed scrolls, stacks of papers bound with faded ribbons, leaflets, pamphlets, mysterious well-worn boxes, and more than a few wrapped objects not readily identifiable.

Bearing the Moot’s crest and covered with a variety of ponderous and old-fashioned scripts, age-browned labels marked past attempts to bring order to this domain, but, curled and brittle, this slender shield line had been long overwhelmed, leaving confusion to hold the field unchallenged. Unchallenged that is, except for a dusty gauze of ancient cobwebs which brought a certain unity to the tumbled documents on the upper shelves and which was moving steadily downwards like a frayed grey curtain. It petered out at those levels where the spiders, paper-loving insects and small wildlife were diligently continuing their self-appointed task of mummifying the accumulated wisdom of the Moot.

Further down, small stretches of order hinted at a lingering rearguard action as occasional ranks of stiff leather spines and gold embossing stood out boldly. These however merely served as a metaphor for the constant defeat of the Moot’s present by its lumbering past.

The floor complemented the descending greyness. Ragged stacks reached up the walls like wind-carved buttresses, from an uneven landscape of boxes and books which fell away to a central plain of musty carpeted floor. Rising from this, like a massif, was Bowlott’s desk, seemingly the inspiration and model for the whole room, with its own miniature central plain surrounded by overspilling disorder. Had Krim ever seen this room, he would have been consumed with envy, for it had no windows. No daylight intruded its blanching fingers into Bowlott’s lair. Such light as there was came from lanterns mounted on four austerely straight pedestals. They heightened the darkness above.

Striker Bowlott sat frowning at his desk. He was always ambivalent about visiting Krim. Though he could not have admitted it to himself, one reason for this unease was that the Venerable Cushion Bearer was extremely good at his job. Further, he was very reliable. Indeed, the man was efficient. This unsettled Bowlott at a level far below his conscious awareness. Efficiency was a word not merely rarely heard in the Moot, but actually shied away from. It had powerful and disturbing undertones of workmanlike vulgarity, of doing things, of practical achievement, and, as such, suggested matters far beneath the dignity and the lofty principles which inspired this revered seat of government. Nevertheless, Krim was efficient. His cushions transformed the Throne of Marab from a jagged torture seat into the vertical equivalent of a luxurious, supportive and well-sprung bed whose only disadvantage was that it was sometimes difficult to stay awake when sat in it. And, when on Throne Duty himself, rather than his crumpled and even older junior assistant, the alacrity with which Krim could adjust and change cushions to maintain the Striker’s comfort as he shifted and turned through ‘long and taxing’ meetings was legendary amongst those who took an interest in such matters.

Then, of course, and even worse, like all the Moot Officers, there was an air of continuity about Krim that irked Bowlott. It was deeply unjust that the likes of Krim and Ector, mere craftsmen after all, should be allowed to remain here in perpetuity when such as he, a lawyer no less, an undisputed master of the ways of the Moot and a natural leader, chosen by the chosen of the people, were there like temporary servants, their tenure at the fickle whim of those same people. Bowlott had little sense of circular reasoning. His ten years in the office and the very high likelihood of another ten did nothing to allay this insecurity and he twitched nervously whenever he thought about it. He really should do something about having the position of Striker made permanent. In fact, this whole business of Acclamations needed to be looked at carefully. The governing of Arvenstaat, a matter which, to Bowlott – and most Senators – meant, above all, a knowledge of the deep intricacies of the Moot and its procedures, was not something that should properly be left to the arbitrary choices of the ignorant and untutored masses.

These were old and familiar thoughts and Bowlott made no effort to pursue them. He was always like this after he had visited Krim – relaxed by the man’s ministrations and made tense by the obsessive, gangling presence. That was another thing about Krim – he was too tall. And too straight. Bowlott could never decide what it was about Krim that he liked the least.

‘Long streak of cold water,’ he muttered to himself into the dusty silence. The prejudice voiced, his little eyes flicked peevishly from side to side as if half-expecting the shade of the Venerable Cushion Bearer to appear out of the gloom, wild-eyed and vengeful now, and purposefully bearing the Blue Cushion.

Almost in panic, Bowlott thrust the vision away and snatched up a pen. Its point buckled as he thrust it into the paper, making an image like a squashed spider. He threw it away irritably. It struck a box and fell on to an uneven heap of papers before dropping on the floor. A few sheets of paper avalanched silently off the heap, gently covering the broken pen for ever.

This sudden flurry of activity dispatched the lingering after-image of Krim and brought Bowlott to the matter which had been increasingly making itself felt over the past few weeks and which he had, for some unknown reason, raised with Krim.

‘Vashnar, Vashnar, Vashnar,’ he mouthed silently, as if forming the man’s name might somehow produce an explanation for what he had done.

The governing of Arvenstaat was an ill-defined affair. In so far as he had bothered with such constitutional matters, Akharim, in his Treatise on the Procedures for the Proper Ordering of the Moot, had been wilfully evasive. After all, like many a usurper before him, he had only written the Treatise to give some spurious credence to his own seizure of power. It was sufficient for him that his charges consisted of followers and leaders. The followers, the masses, on the whole were best left undisturbed. There was little point in seeking their opinion about anything, least of all who should rule them. Not only were they not interested but, as his own example served to show, there were always incipient leaders amongst them. It was best that such random forces were not encouraged. As for the leaders, he further divided these into those who talked their way to power and those who fought their way. It was thus his task to ensure that the existing talkers and the fighters be kept aware of their common interest in maintaining him in power. The Treatise, in many ways an unexpectedly elegant and convincing piece of work, occupied the talkers, while persuading most of the fighters to form a guard to enforce his will. These last he further controlled by encouraging mutual suspicion and by the occasional use of silent knives.