Roger Taylor: Caddoran

Attend on me at close of Moot today. By Order, Bowlott, Striker to the Moot.

At the top it bore the instruction, To Commander Vashnar, in person .

It was greeted with a long in-drawn whistle. ‘Vashnar, in person. And here!’ The reader was wide-eyed. He pointed to the tube from which Bowlott’s cough had emerged a few moments earlier and his voice fell to a whisper. ‘We’ll have to listen to that.’ He became thoughtful. ‘And we’d better do all the copies as well.’ The first Page stared at him in surprise, only to be met with a knowing pout from his more experienced companion. ‘You never know,’ he declared, bureaucrat-to-be. ‘Vashnar could check up on us.’

There were two reasons why the Page had asked his friend to accompany him. One was that, being relatively new to the job, he was far from certain of the way to the Warden’s Section through the Moot Palace’s convoluted corridors and closed courtyards. The other was that, though rarely visited, the Warden’s Section was a place universally feared by Pages. Civilian officers of the Moot, of all ranks, were generally despised by the Wardens but while adults might expect some surliness or outright sneers, Pages could usually look to more physical humiliation.

However, in this instance, Bowlott’s personal seal and Vashnar’s name had the effect of a talisman and, though flushed and flustered with the haste and anxiety of their journey, the two Pages reached Vashnar unmolested.

The room from which Vashnar conducted most of his day-to-day work was starkly different from Bowlott’s dusty office. Amongst other things, it was light, with a large window occupying almost the whole of one wall. It was also bare of any form of ornamentation and there was not a vestige of disorder. A plain but well-made and highly polished wooden table served as a desk, and pens, inks and various writing tablets were laid out on it with meticulous precision. A carved crystal ink-stand stood at the heart of the display. The pale grey walls bore only maps of Arvenshelm and Arvenstaat, while a set of shelves stood to attention in one corner, displaying two rows of neatly arranged books. Dominant amongst these was one written by Vashnar’s paternal grandfather on the history and duties of the Wardens. Akharim had left no Treatise for the guidance of the Wardens. His thoughts on that had come down as an oral tradition which had necessarily shifted and changed as convenience had dictated over the years. Vashnar’s grandfather had set down this tradition together with an extensive analysis and commentary. It was a weighty and stern work, generally known as The Commentaries. It was prefaced by the maxim:

Above all things, there shall be order.

Vashnar’s thoughts were very much those of his grandfather.

Vashnar stood up as the two Pages were shown in. Taller than most men, and heavily built, he had a stillness about him that could be mistaken for ponderousness. In fact this was because he moved economically, using the minimum of effort in all things. This same economy made him both powerful and fast in his reactions when need arose, as many a wrongdoer could testify to as the young Vashnar had progressed through the ranks of the Wardens. Though it had been a long time since the position of leader of the Wardens had been open to challenge by physical combat, a residue of that thinking still allied itself keenly with Vashnar’s own grasp of the realities of power.

Both Pages looked up at him. His presence filled the room for them as he looked slowly from one to the other. Their already flushed faces reddened further under this scrutiny, until a surreptitious elbow in the ribs jolted the official bearer of the message back to his duties.

‘From Striker Bowlott… Commander… sir,’ came a dry-throated announcement.

Vashnar extended a large hand and took the shaking paper.

The Pages noted no response as he read it, though those who knew Vashnar well would have detected a momentary narrowing of his cold black-irised eyes. And those who knew him well would have detected it, for no one grew to know Vashnar well without being sensitive to such minutiae.

He moved to the window, noticeably darkening the room. The two Pages risked an unhappy glance at one another as he turned his back to them and stared out at the view. Making people feel guilty was something that Vashnar did without even thinking about it.

After a distressingly long pause and without relinquishing his vigil, he spoke. ‘Tell Striker Bowlott that I shall attend on him as…’ He looked down at the paper again. ‘As ordered.’

‘Sir.’

Vashnar remained by the window for some time. When he turned, it needed no subtle perception to read the surprise and irritation that flickered across his face at finding the two Pages still there.

A second trembling paper was held out to him. ‘Would you sign this, please, Commander.’

‘To show we’ve delivered the message, sir.’

Vashnar stared at the shaking duo. ‘What was the reply I just gave you?’ he said. ‘Speak it, now.’

He had to repeat this instruction before the two Pages stammered out variations of, ‘You’ll attend on Striker Bowlott as ordered… sir.’

Vashnar gave a curt nod then slowly extended a forefinger towards the door. ‘My aide signs… papers. See that you deliver my reply quickly and accurately.’

When the two Pages had scurried out, Vashnar took The Commentaries from the bookshelf and laid it carefully on the desk as he sat down. He did not open it, but laid his hand on it as though he were about to take an oath. He often sat thus when he was angry or unsettled. It brought the supporting shade of his grandfather to him, carrying him past that of his weak and despised father. It was one of his few regrets that he had never met the old man, though this did not stop him from forming a clear impression of him.

And, although no sign of it showed other than his hand on The Commentaries, he was both angry and unsettled now. Angry at Bowlott’s thoughtless and pompous, By Order, and unsettled by his being driven to the point of seeking an interview with him. It did not help that he knew it was his own fault that this had come about.

He drummed a brief tattoo on The Commentaries. He did not need to read his grandfather’s comments on the Death Cry. He knew that his actions had been in accordance with established tradition and that no reference to the Moot was needed, but…

But what had possessed him to do it? What demon had reached into him and persuaded him to this deed which might undo the years of steady progress he had been making in consolidating power to himself? He ran his thumb gently over the inside of the ring that graced the second finger of his right hand. The ring was his only needless decoration and touching it was his only nervous mannerism. Both were very discreet.

With no other outward sign of the turmoil within, he cursed Thyrn. It was not a new curse. Indeed, it was one that was almost constantly in his mind. And, as it was apt to do, it spiralled out into a curse against all the Caddoran. Damned freaks. Why couldn’t some other way be found to…?

Here the anger turned on itself. Vashnar was not given to railing against what could not be altered and it angered him further that he could not restrain himself from doing just that. The Caddoran had been an integral part of Arvenstaat’s culture since before the state had existed as such, their origins rolling back into the ancient tribal times and thence into myth where they played elaborate roles of confidants, go-betweens and manipulators to the peculiar gods of the old Arvenwern. Even now, though notionally they were only message carriers, they were in fact much more. Routinely, any Caddoran could memorize a spoken message almost instantaneously and retain it for as long as the sender required. Masters of the art, however, could carry subtleties of intonation, gesture and expression – could convey the true meaning of a communication in a manner not remotely possible by written word, or even rote recitation. Myths notwithstanding, the origin of the art was obscure, though there was little doubt that it developed from a battlefield skill. Amongst the Caddoran, being able to trace a line of descent in the general direction of some famous hero was a matter of great pride. Only a few generations ago, in less civilized times, that same kudos would have been gained by tracing the line back to some more legendary figure.