Roger Taylor: Caddoran

‘Surely the Death Cry is not a Moot matter,’ he offered, laying heavy emphasis on the word Moot in an attempt to imply that the Striker should not be concerning himself with it.

‘All things are matters for the Moot, when the Moot so determines,’ Bowlott rebutted sternly, furrowing his brow so that his tiny eyes almost vanished.

Krim, crushed by this proclamation, bowed.

‘And the Moot may yet so determine if this affair continues to be a distracting subject of debate and gossip amongst its members.’ The eyes reappeared and Bowlott pressed back hard against the cushion that supported his head and shoulders. Recovering himself, Krim unfolded to his full height and nimbly made minor adjustments to the cushion.

Bowlott’s face relaxed. ‘Technically, you are correct. The Cry is one of the ancient and fundamental rights of the people, the protection of which is the Moot’s fundamental duty. However, there are times when to protect such a right, it becomes necessary to circumscribe… or even curtail it…’

Bowlott’s voice faded away as he made this last pronouncement. Krim was genuinely disturbed. He found himself gaping again. Although he had been too long ensconced in the Moot Palace even to envisage clearly what might happen, he remembered enough from his younger days to know that the Cry was a right particularly cherished by the public, and that to interfere with it would be to bring about open defiance of the Moot’s authority. And it was a basic, if unspoken, tenet of both Senators and the Moot’s officers alike that attracting the people’s attention to the activities of the Moot was a bad thing.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Even thinking about the people beyond the Moot unsettled Krim. Now he found himself assailed by the thought that faced with Bowlott’s remark, he should actually do something! But what? His mind began to spiral towards panic. Then he heard himself speaking.

‘I haven’t your deep understanding of such matters, Striker Bowlott. The Treatise. The Addenda. Ancient rights. But perhaps if…’ He hesitated. ‘If you were to… speak to Commander Vashnar… perhaps ask him why he proclaimed the Death Cry against Hyrald and the others… why…’

His voice faded as Bowlott turned to him, eyes glinting enigmatically out of the depths. Then, abruptly, he was out of the chair and pacing to and fro.

The Fitting Chair stood at the centre of a small circular arena, the lowest point of the Cushion Repository and a focus for the rows of tiered shelves. After traversing this a couple of times, Bowlott, hands clenched behind his back and head bowed, turned into one of the aisles that led up from it. After an unsteady start, Krim strode after him, swaying stiffly, long hands nervously fiddling with the brass measuring rod. What had prompted him to speak as he had? Such recklessness. Was he to be rebuked? Was perhaps the Striker going to make an impromptu inspection of his domain, in search of something that might be wanting, to sharpen further his rebuke? Krim’s hands began to shake. The sun glinted malevolently off the brass rod sending shards of mocking light into the dingiest reaches of the Repository.

The Striker stopped as he reached the top of the steps and turned to look over the arena as though he were facing the fully assembled Moot. Krim, some way below, stared up at him apprehensively.

Looking over Krim’s head at his invisible audience, Bowlott proclaimed, ‘Your skills are a great comfort to us, Venerable and Honoured Cushion Bearer.’

Us, Krim noted ecstatically. Not a rebuke, but a formal Striker’s commendation. A great honour, both to him and his office. He glowed under it, forgetting his recent concerns and quite forgetting his real opinion of the Striker.

Bowlott continued. ‘After long and taxing consideration of the relevant precedents, I have determined what must be done to resolve this matter. I shall speak to Commander Vashnar. I shall ask him why he has done what he has done.’

Krim bowed, flushed with delight. Such wisdom, he thought.

‘It’s a sea monster.’ Thyrn was wide-eyed as he stared at the approaching shape. Hyrald shot him a silencing glance, though there was as much doubt in his eyes as anger, and he half drew his sword as he moved to stand by Rhavvan. One of the horses whinnied. Adren reached up to calm it.

As if in response, the shape stopped its advance and stood swaying slightly.

‘Who are you? What’s been happening here?’

An unsteady voice, a man’s, reached them through the mist.

Rhavvan frowned. ‘Who’re you?’ he echoed back, following it with a more uncertain, ‘What are you?’

The shape wavered, then replied, ‘I’m a shoreman.’

And, abruptly, with two cautious paces forward, it was a man. What had made his mist-shrouded form so strange was a long object he was carrying on his back. His loose-fitting calf-length boots and hooded long coat were patently working clothes of some kind, and they glistened dully as if wet. The coat was unfastened and Hyrald noted immediately that he was unarmed, apart from what was obviously a working knife in a rough string-bound sheath shoved into his belt. The object on his back exaggerated his movements, which in turn demonstrated that he was torn between staying and fleeing. He was also edging sideways slightly, as if he were trying to move around and past them. Whatever else he might be, Hyrald decided, he was no immediate threat. He released his sword and Rhavvan, reaching the same conclusion, lowered his staff.

‘Who are you?’ the newcomer repeated, clearly afraid. ‘What are you doing here?’ Then he saw the bodies of the dead Wardens. He stepped back with a cry, half stumbling as he did so.

Rhavvan moved forward quickly and caught his arm.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I… I told you… I’m a shoreman. Let me go. Don’t hurt me. I’ve nothing worth having on me. Hardly any fish even, today.’ Then, more urgently, ‘I must get off the shore.’ He tried to shake free of Rhavvan’s grip, but was apparently no match for the big man. He made no attempt to draw his knife with his free hand.

Hyrald intervened. ‘Don’t be afraid. We mean you no harm.’

He nodded to Rhavvan, who reluctantly eased his grip on the man. Hyrald met his frightened but unexpectedly searching gaze. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he repeated earnestly, willing calmness into the man. He pointed to the two bodies. ‘I can explain what’s happened here. There’s been… an accident. We’re not going to hurt you. We just want…’

A raucous cry from above made all of them start. It was followed by the sound of a wave gently breaking.

With unexpected force the man tore his arm free from Rhavvan. His face was desperate now and it was obvious he was going to flee no matter what the cost. Yet, as Hyrald held his gaze, he hesitated. Hyrald held out a hand to stop Rhavvan seizing him again. The man pointed past the group, into the mist. His mouth worked silently for a moment before he managed to say, ‘For mercy’s sake, man, the tide’s turning. Get off the shore.’

Somewhere, another wave broke, louder this time. The nearby water’s edge suddenly retreated then surged forward with unexpected force, splashing over Hyrald’s boots, tugging at him impatiently. The shoreman began running, deftly evading a lunge from Rhavvan despite his cumbersome burden.

A cold breeze brushed Hyrald’s face and the man’s fear swept over him. ‘We’re lost. Help us,’ he shouted after the retreating form. ‘Please.’

The shoreman stopped and turned, then gestured to them.

‘Get on your horses – follow me, quickly.’ And he was running again.

His urgency infected the others and, without any debate, Rhavvan mounted, dragging the injured and protesting Warden unceremoniously across his saddle, while Hyrald and Nordath took the other two horses with Adren and Thyrn. Another wave lapped around the horses’ hooves. Then they were galloping after the fleeing shoreman. It took them longer to catch him than Hyrald had anticipated – he was running very quickly, despite his burden.