Roger Taylor - Caddoran

Occasionally, in his less troubled moments, Krim wove other fantasies – fantasies as elaborate as his embroidery. One of these had him being honoured by the Moot for his devotion to duty and culminated in his impromptu covers becoming part of the Moot’s revered traditions, their use perhaps even being enshrined in an addendum to Akharim’s Treatise.

Today, however, was not such a moment. Today the Striker himself was coming to the Cushion Hall. And coming at Krim’s own request, after he noticed that the cushion beneath the Striker’s feet had become worn and flattened. Krim was twitching. He had left his guilty coverlets on the cushions as long as he dared, but the Striker would be here at any moment and he had no choice but to remove them now, leaving the precious fabrics exposed to the ruthless glare of the sun.

His mouth stiffened into a thin line as he steeled himself to this grim task. It occurred to him in a desperate moment that perhaps he might raise the matter with the Striker directly, but the very thought chilled him. The Striker had no authority to intervene arbitrarily in such matters. He too, was bound by the Moot’s ancient traditions and the Treatise. He would have to judge the Striker’s mood and act accordingly.

A familiar tapping reached him through the muffled air of the hall. Arms and legs flapping he made his way down a stepped aisle and up a narrow stair to the scene of his treachery where, with practised speed, he deftly removed the covers and thrust them into the Bag of his Office which hung by his side.

Scarcely had he finished than three solemn knocks announced the Striker.

Nervously, Krim straightened his Bag of Office, barked out a loud cough, then stretched himself to his full height and moved to open the door.

Striker Bowlott rolled in. A loud rap on the floor with his long cane and an airy gesture sent the two Moot Pages who attended him scuttling forward to lay out their burden of cushions by the Fitting Chair. A further tap dismissed them to wait outside.

Small and stout, Bowlott was typical of the line of Moot Strikers. Pompous and self-opinionated, he fondly mistook his considerable low cunning and nit-picking knowledge of the Moot’s arcane procedures for wisdom.

‘Venerable and Honoured Cushion Bearer,’ he said, acknowledging Krim’s low and disconcertingly unsteady bow with a mannered nod.

‘Striker Bowlott,’ replied Krim. ‘My apologies for disturbing your busy day with such a matter, but your comfort is the comfort of the Moot and the ease of the State.’

It was a traditional greeting which the Striker acknowledged this time with a limp-handed gesture.

Krim’s lanky arm stretched out, motioning him to the Fitting Chair. This was an exact replica of the Throne of Marab, the ancient chair which stood in the Moot Hall and which had accommodated successive Strikers since its original owner’s demise. Undecorated by so much as even a chamfer or a rounded edge, it was stoutly built and profoundly uncomfortable. Ostensibly this was because Marab was a battle-hardened warrior unaffected by such niceties, but the reality was that he hardly ever sat on it. In his time, the assembly which was to become the Moot was a token representation of the people which Marab, nothing if not shrewd and perceptive, had invented so that he would have plenty of scapegoats ready to blame whenever anything went wrong. On the rare occasions when he actually summoned the assembly, he would drape an arm over the back of the chair and, with his other hand on his sword hilt, tell the people’s representatives what was needed of them. Then he would leave. Once, when he had actually sat in it, Akharim, young, ambitious, and looking to ingratiate himself, had obsequiously offered him his own cushion; Marab had sneered and caustically blessed him with the title of Venerable and Honoured Cushion Bearer. In so doing, and untypically, he completely underestimated both Akharim’s dark and vengeful nature, and his almost inhuman patience. As did several other members of the assembly who chose subsequently to make Akharim the butt of their humour because of this humiliation.

After Marab’s death – an event much appreciated by the people – Akharim had retained the throne and most of the power that went with it, while ostentatiously rejecting the actual title of Dictator. Subsequently he had taken delight in enshrining the post of Cushion Bearer in his elaborate and obsessive Treatise on the Procedures for the Proper Ordering of the Moot.

Striker Bowlott heaved himself into the chair and Krim immediately began the ritual of positioning and adjusting the cushions which the Pages had brought. During this, Bowlott let out a noisy sigh. Krim noted the sound. It was good. The Striker was in a confiding mood. He must stay alert, ready to seize any opportunity that might present itself to bring his problem to the Striker’s notice. Like most of the Moot Senators, Bowlott’s dominant concern was with his own dignity or, more correctly, with the appearance of dignity, and thus almost his entire life was spent hiding behind a screen of empty words and gestures. Unaware that he was exactly the same, it was one of Krim’s secret conceits that he could see through such, to the real man lurking within, and thereby manipulate him. As a result, he despised most of the Moot Senators, and Striker Bowlott in particular, as vain self-seekers and unworthy of the offices that they held. In this, he was at one with most of the population of Arvenstaat, even those who bothered to participate in the four-yearly Acclamations – fewer and fewer with each session of the Moot and now only about one out of every three eligible electors.

However, illogical though it was that the people should willingly accept such folly in high places, the Moot Senators did exercise power over the land, albeit not as much as they imagined, and the Striker, in his privileged position as an ostensibly independent arbiter, exercised power over the Senators. And Krim in his turn, saw himself as exercising influence, if not power, over the Striker. Not that he involved himself in the squabbling of the innumerable and shifting factions that comprised the Moot. Like Striker Bowlott, he understood that while the Senators indulged in this, they would be less likely to turn their attention to anything else. Krim used his perceived power exclusively to enhance the esteem in which the office of Cushion Bearer should be held and, by the same token, to undermine the positions of his fellow officers, particularly the Most Noble Artisan.

As was his habit, he stood back and cast a professional eye over the seated Striker. Bowlott’s mean little eyes were as peevish as ever and his down-turned mouth had a particularly self-pitying look. While in genuine awe of the office, Krim really couldn’t stand the man. Perhaps it was because he was already agitated by concern about the destruction of his cushions by the intruding sunlight, but Krim felt something else stirring within him. His gaze drifted away from the sour spectacle in the chair to a cushion that lay on a shelf beneath the chair. This was a special cushion, the Blue Cushion. As with all the other cushions, one such was made for each new Striker. It was fashioned after the one with which Akharim had smothered Marab and was used ceremonially to menace each new Striker on his selection by the Shout of the Moot.

Assassin!

The increasingly unspoken portion of his title came to Krim so unexpectedly and with such force that it made him start. He disguised the movement by returning to his inspection of the Striker with a vague wave of his hands. However, this did not prevent a small flood of other thoughts bubbling out in the wake of the word.

What an odious little wretch Bowlott was. What a pity the title of Assassin was purely formal. Right now, he could just…