Roger Taylor: Caddoran

In the end, the combination of Akharim’s shrewd judgement and those silent knives proved extremely effective, and it was the talkers who prevailed as nominal rulers while the guards enjoyed the actual power, equilibrium being maintained by their unspoken agreement that the masses should remain undisturbed. Thus the Moot and the Wardens began their long journey through Arvenstaat’s history. And thus it was that Bowlott and the Moot Senators believed that their people could only be governed by written words – by laws. Only laws could make right the failings of the foolish and the wicked, and once a law was passed, nothing else was needed. And laws, in their turn, could be made only by the Moot, with its fund of ancient wisdom.

As with much that happened in the Moot, Bowlott’s vision had little contact with reality. The accountability of the Wardens, for example, consisted of a yearly formalized report from Vashnar, some solemn but token questioning on trivial procedural points by one of the Moot’s many sub-committees followed by a fulsome vote of thanks from the Moot assembled. As for the interminable new laws that the Moot passed, the Wardens and the local Watches, which served in lieu of the Wardens in the smaller towns and villages, generally ignored them, confining themselves to their long-established role of ensuring that the wilder elements of society were kept quiet, one way or another, so that the bulk of the people could get on with their lives in peace. On the whole, this had become an agreeable arrangement and it worked well enough while nothing particularly untoward happened. Lately, however, untoward things had been happening, and this lethargic stability was beginning to waver ominously.

News had come from the coast that the Morlider islands had been seen again. Until some sixteen years ago, these floating islands had returned every year or so for generations and, while powerful tides protected Arvenstaat from the worst excesses of their vicious inhabitants, coastal villages had been regularly raided. Then, coinciding with rumours of a terrible war in lands to the north, the visits had mysteriously stopped. Their equally mysterious return now was causing great unease.

More tangibly, trade with Nesdiryn, over the mountains to the west, declining ever since the ousting of the Count by its strange new rulers, had eventually come to a complete halt. As a result, traders had been seeking out their Senators and asking for help. And too, alarming stories had come from there recently; a great army was being gathered with the intention of making a war of expansion against Nesdiryn’s neighbours; the Count had ousted his rivals in a fearful battle in the mountains; the Count had been defeated and killed by them; and many variations upon these themes, but all involving the threat of armed violence.

And now this business with Vashnar and the Death Cry.

Bowlott picked up another pen and began decorating the image of the squashed spider. The Cry was a routine device used by the Wardens and the Watches for dealing with thieves and other wrongdoers. True, it stirred people out of their routines and was thus a little risky, but there was sufficient momentum in the ordinary lives of most of them to ensure that nothing got out of hand. The Death Cry, however, was another matter. That had caused a stir. All the more so for its involving another Warden. Again, it had provoked people into pestering their Senators about it. Though he had skilfully avoided showing any response when he heard about it, it had come as a shock to Bowlott to realize that the Death Cry could still be invoked, and that, like the Cry, it was officially outside the remit of the Moot.

He shook his head as the spider slowly turned into a rather grotesque blossom.

‘I shall speak to Commander Vashnar. I shall ask him why he has done what he has done.’ The words he had uttered to a rapt Krim – Bowlott was always sensitive to the mood of his audience – returned to him. Barbed thorns sprang out of the blossom. Rather an impetuous declaration, that, for all it fell only into Krim’s ear. Probably brought on by the man’s comforting attention. He should have been more careful. Still, it seemed that it was all that was left. It was some time before Vashnar was to report to the Moot and, in any event, this was unequivocally not a matter to be dealt with in such a public way. He drew an elaborate border around the blossom then screwed up the paper and threw it on the floor.

For a little while, he leaned back and stared up at the grey, ill-shaped and shadowy ceiling. The sight comforted him. Nothing had disturbed those uppermost volumes in generations. All was well. All was preserved. The wisdom of the Moot lay coiled and ready to spring to the defence of the land should dire times come to pass.

He took up another piece of paper and began writing. When he had finished he removed a plug from a funnel-ended tube fastened to one arm of his chair, and coughed into it. The sound passed along the tube to emerge in an adjacent room as a tetchy grunt. Two Moot Pages looked up irritably from a board game they were playing.

‘Oink, oink,’ one of them said quickly, laughing and pointing at the other. ‘Piggy’s calling. Your turn.’

The ritual having been observed, his companion scowled and stabbed the board with his finger as he stood up. ‘I can remember where all those pieces are,’ he said significantly, a declaration which was received with raised hands and an expression of profound innocence.

‘Will it be six copies, Striker Bowlott?’ the Page asked uncertainly as he examined the paper.

Bowlott frowned and shook his head. ‘Six copies is for official memoranda to members of the Outer Moot, Page, or, during recess, for informal notifications to the Moot Hall Attendants. You should know this by now.’ He reached out and tapped the paper. ‘This is a special docket of interview, Striker to Officer… very confidential. Four copies and one on vellum for the Registrar. And don’t forget to bring the finished copy back to me for my personal seal. See to it quickly now. This is an urgent matter.’

The page pulled an unhappy face for the benefit of his companion as he emerged through the cave entrance from Bowlott’s office. Being a Moot Page was an esteemed position in certain sections of Arvenshelm society, particularly that occupied by the clerks and copyists who dealt with the Moot’s extensive output of words. It was not particularly well paid, but it was secure for life, presented little intellectual challenge and, almost inevitably, led its holders onto become Attendants or Official Scribes – part of the self-perpetuating bureaucracy that had accreted around the Moot, as it does about all governments. Fond parents would glow when one of their children was accepted for such a post and, if not careful, could become a grievously unctuous burden to their friends and neighbours. Generally, a Page’s life was a relaxed affair and, mimicking the Moot itself, it had long-established and unofficial procedures of its own to ensure that this remained so. Nevertheless, from time to time, there were problems.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked the companion, guiltily repositioning a piece on the board on seeing his friend’s distress. He anticipated with a grimace. ‘Not a twenty copy?’

The Page shook his head. ‘Striker to Officer – four and a V.’ He held out the paper. ‘But it’s to Commander Vashnar. Over in the Warden’s Section.’ This provoked a further grimace – a genuine one. Uncomfortably, a request was made. ‘Will you come with me?’ There was a brief pause while friendship and peer loyalty were tested, then a reluctant, ‘Yes,’ followed by another brief silence which ended in a livelier, ‘What is it?’

Bowlott’s message was simple to the point of sparseness.