Roger Taylor - The waking of Orthlund

A voice roused Dilrap from his reverie.

‘The people grow more enthusiastic with each dem-onstration, don’t you think, Secretary?’

The voice was Dan-Tor’s, normal now, and it brought Dilrap sharply and coldly back to the present.

‘Indeed, Ffyrst,’ he said, bowing and stepping for-ward. ‘Your spirit fires us all.’ He looked down at the interchanging columns and ranks of marchers with their swaying banners and blazing torches.

Dan-Tor watched him intently, but without the awful eyes of his true self. ‘Yet you yourself do not seem inspired by the sight of our growing army,’ he said.

Dilrap did as he always did when opportunity al-lowed, he spoke as much of the truth as he dared.

‘I’m not a military man, Ffyrst,’ he said. ‘I find the prospect of war frightening and these displays of your power quite overwhelming.’

Unexpectedly, Dan-Tor almost sneered. He waved a dismissive hand across the bellowing scene in front of him. ‘This is not my power, Dilrap,’ he said. ‘This is the puny ranting of a crushed people. When they have destroyed the Lords, then you will begin to see my power: the true power.’

Dilrap said nothing, but held his breath close. His stomach turned over. Why does he talk to me like this? he thought. Why does he come so near to saying who he truly is?

Abruptly, Dan-Tor turned. Dilrap’s chest tightened. But the Ffyrst ignored him. ‘Stay here and watch,’ he said brusquely to the people around him, then he strode from the platform. Dilrap bowed hastily, as did all the others, then, turning back to the crowd, he gripped the guard rail and, closing his eyes briefly, let out as long a breath as he dared.

When he opened his eyes, Urssain was standing beside him. He looked at the Mathidrin Commander. The man was changing perceptibly. Learning from his master, Dilrap thought. He was becoming less surly, and seemed even to be developing a peculiar charm at times. It made Dilrap’s flesh crawl. Urssain as an ambitious thug was bad enough, but at least it had a certain honesty. Now, with his greater authority and power allowing more rein to his true nature, the civilized veneer he was affecting was repellent in the extreme.

Ironically, though, it made Dilrap feel easier with the man. It gave him a measure of the Mathidrin’s monstrous ego. It was a weakness. Dilrap had begun looking for weaknesses in the moths that fluttered around Dan-Tor’s dangerous flame. As Urssain learned from Dan-Tor, so, inadvertently, Dilrap followed the example set by Sylvriss, by wilfully ingratiating himself into the favours of anyone who could be remotely useful. This he did not by obsequious fawning, but by simple straightforward courtesy and by ensuring that where favours were sought, they would be granted if possible. But always he left a gentle, unfelt, barb in his debtor. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to do something for me one day,’ he would say, smiling, and waving his hand airily, while his eyes said, equally dearly, ‘These are difficult times. We who see this reality must help one another when need arises. Be prepared.’

It would have been an ineffective device once, when he was Rgoric’s flustered and flapping Secretary, but now, because he had not only survived the demise of Rgoric but also retained his old office, and because Dan-Tor would speak to him alone on occasions in con-spicuous privacy, it was assumed that he had the Ffyrst’s ear and that he was thus a man to be both courted and feared. In reality, no one had Dan-Tor’s ear, and Dilrap was meticulous in never claiming such a privilege; but equally, he did nothing to disabuse people of the idea. It was far too valuable a misunderstanding. Indeed, it left even Urssain uncertain.

‘Is the Ffyrst angry, Secretary?’ Urssain asked.

Dilrap looked at him enigmatically, but did not reply. This was another device that he was finding increasingly valuable. What was not said could not be argued and could not be repeated or distorted.

‘He left so suddenly,’ Urssain tried again, following the lure. ‘I thought his speech and the marching went down well.’

Dilrap turned away from him and looked down at the still marching figures. ‘The Ffyrst is the Ffyrst, Commander,’ he said. ‘Who can tell what he’s thinking?’

Urssain nodded. ‘It’s just that he spoke to you,’ he said affecting a casualness that Dilrap could smell was far from the reality of his inner feelings. Dilrap’s earlier suspicions returned. I wonder if this is the first he’s heard of this imminent assault on the Lords, he thought.

‘Just a small administrative matter,’ Dilrap said off-handedly, then, turning to the Mathidrin, he smiled nervously and attacked. ‘I didn’t realize your battle plans were so advanced, Commander. I thought your intention was still to fight a defensive war amp;mdashletting the Lords move to Vakloss, rather than risk moving across country to attack them on their own territory.’

Urssain’s eyes narrowed briefly at this unexpected observation, then he remembered his new persona and Dilrap’s uncertain status. ‘I can’t discuss that with you, Dilrap,’ he said, managing a nice balance of menace and regret.

Dilrap looked understanding, and bowed his head respectfully. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure I wouldn’t understand it if you did. The sooner the whole business is over, the better, as far as I’m concerned. Then we can get on with running the country properly.’

We , noted Urssain. Sooner or later, Dilrap would have to go, without a doubt. If only he could be certain of Dan-Tor’s response to such a deed.

He gave Dilrap a curt bow and returned to Aelang.

You didn’t know, did you, Commander? Dilrap thought with some glee. Your precious leader prods you along like cattle, doesn’t he?

He looked again at the weaving mass of Mathidrin, Militia and Youth Corps below him. He had no concern for the Mathidrin; let them take their chances against the Lords’ High Guards. But the Militia? That was only a sad aberration. Didn’t he himself respond to the drama of Dan-Tor’s rallies? And he knew what the creature was! How could weaker, less knowledgeable souls resist such rousing blandishments? But it would be tragic indeed if they came to be pitched into battle.

He pushed the thought away painfully. The fate of the members of the Militia was in their own hands and in any event was beyond his control. Once battle lines were drawn, many terrible things would happen, and they would only end when the conflict ended. It was his self-appointed duty to ensure that the Lords knew as much as possible about the Mathidrin so that such an end came as swiftly as it could.

When he next saw Lorac or Tel-Odrel, he would give them his impression of Urssain’s response to Dan-Tor’s announcement, but he could still tell them nothing in answer to the question that concerned the Lords most. How could Dan-Tor’s amp;mdashOklar’s amp;mdashterrible, city-wrecking power be faced and overcome by ordinary flesh and blood?

He turned, and with a pleasant bow to those around him, made his way down the long winding stairs into the glaring globelight of the courtyard.

Part of Urssain told him that he would be happier pottering about Fyorlund as he used to do, surviving on a judicious mixture of small-scale thieving and occasional employment. It was only a small part however, and only made itself heard with any force when he was facing the prospect of speaking, or worse, questioning Dan-Tor, as now. At all other times it was well submerged, lost under his desire to attain the goals that Dan-Tor had shown him at their very first meeting: goals of wealth and power.

Now, however, it was proving extremely alluring even though he knew it was an illusion, and a foolish one at that. His itinerant life held charm only in retrospect and in any event could not have been pursued in these troubled times. Besides, he was trapped; willingly, admittedly, but trapped nevertheless. He could go nowhere now but where Dan-Tor led; knives waited in every other direction.