Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

One stallholder threw Hawklan a large piece of fruit as a token of appreciation. The weasel-faced man was obviously well-known. The incident cheered Gavor up considerably, though Hawklan was a little subdued by the effect of his own mock ferocity.

For some while longer he wandered around but, coming unexpectedly across one of the formal sleeping areas, he decided to abandon his search until the next day.

The cheapest and simplest section of the sleeping area was filled with open-sided shelters looking like great, wide-canopied mushrooms, each with a plain timber floor raised a little above the grass.

Hawklan flopped down into the first free space he saw, gratefully ate the fruit the stallholder had given him and, wrapping his cloak around himself, fell asleep almost immediately. Gavor cast a glance towards the distant trees then, after some hesitation, took up a post by Hawklan’s head. Soon, he too was apparently asleep, but to the keen-eyed, a glint of starlight could be caught in his shining black eyes from time to time.

Towards the middle of the night, Hawklan awoke, slightly alarmed, as if disturbed by some noise.

‘Sorry, dear boy,’ whispered Gavor apologetically. ‘Tummy rumbles. Must have missed a meal today.’ Hawklan’s face creased into a smile in the moonlight.

‘You never missed a meal in your life. It’s probably someone you ate. Some unsuspecting insect having its revenge.’

Gavor snorted, and Hawklan stretched himself care-fully to avoid disturbing his neighbours. The air was punctuated by a hissing cacophony of snorts, whistles and wheezes and, lifting his head, he could see the area was completely full of sleeping people lying in every conceivable posture. Some were lying by the dying embers of an open stove that had been lit to protect them from the cold night air. Hawklan was glad of the cloak that Tirilen had found, which had kept him warm in the snows and cool in the hot sun.

He lay back and stared out at the sky. Most of the stars had been obliterated by a brilliant full moon that silvered the black void. He asked himself again what could have drawn him here so compulsively after twenty years of quiet contentment in Pedhavin. But no answer came. No reason, no logic took him from cause to effect. Just the drive that had said he must come here. Just the tinker’s voice. ‘At the Gretmearc at Altfarran. They have many such toys there.’ Toys! He shuddered at the memory of the prancing mannequin.

But what was he to do? All that he could do was look around. If he came across any sinister item such as those the tinker had sold, perhaps he would know what to do next. Would he have to trace these things back further to a more distant source? And then what? Who or what could be making such things, and why? And again, why was he being driven, or drawn towards them?

The thoughts tumbled to and fro in his mind, chas-ing one another around and around as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He could not exorcise them, so he left them alone, letting them flit about as they wished. Eventually he fell into a deep and untroubled sleep.

The following day it rained. High grey clouds had blown in from the north, and they lingered over the Gretmearc to deposit their contents in a long steady soaking stream that showed every intention of staying for the day. Fires appeared in the mushroom-shaped shelters and other places, and most booths and stalls became drying centres for the squelching crowds. Hawklan remarked that although there was no con-spicuous sign of anyone in authority over the Gretmearc, things seemed to get done with remarkable speed and efficiency.

‘Self interest, dear boy,’ remarked Gavor. ‘We’re some way north here, and the weather’s more often bad than good, so-keep the customers here by keeping them comfortable, and make a trade of it at the same time. These blighters pray for bad weather you know,’ he concluded with an airy wave of his wing enveloping a busy line of stalls.

‘I’d no idea you were so cynical, Gavor,’ replied Hawklan. Gavor pooh-poohed the suggestion.

‘Not cynical, dear boy. Wouldn’t dream of being cynical. It’s no different to the Pedhavin farmers sharing their crops with one another, or making Isloman their First Carver and then giving him food because he won’t be able to grow his own. Self interest. They want his carving and his knowledge, so they look after him. Same here. They need these people, so they look after them.’

Hawklan conceded the point suspiciously. He was certainly glad of the numerous opportunities he would have to get warm and dry if need arose.

Gavor however, was less enchanted. ‘This is ruining my feathers, dear boy. I’ll really have to ask you to excuse me. See you later.’ And then he was gone, in a flurry of feathers and spray, before Hawklan could speak.

In what promised to be a weary repetition of the previous day, Hawklan found himself wandering again through the myriad winding aisles and different levels of the Gretmearc, looking for something he hoped he would recognize. The rain streaked down in a steady, unremitting vertical stream, but in spite of it, and in spite of the grey leaden sky, the Gretmearc seemed to be as full and as busy as ever, and only marginally less cheerful than it had been the day before in the spring sunshine.

He pulled his hood further over his head and wrapped his cloak around himself. He was quite glad that the rain allowed him to do this as it made him feel less conspicuous and hid the Black Sword that had attracted such attention yesterday.

Towards the end of the day, he was beginning to reconsider the worth of the intuition that had brought him there. True, it had been an interesting journey over the mountains, and the Gretmearc itself was indeed well worth a visit-he promised himself he would persuade Loman to allow Tirilen to come here in the summer, or perhaps next year-but he had neither seen nor felt anything untoward once he had become used to the rather frenetic atmosphere of the place. An excess of it, he knew, would not be to his taste, but it seemed to be free from corruption. And all the goods he had looked at had been free from any taint that he could note. Many of them were poor in quality by the standards of Orthlund, but all were sincerely made and without malice. Indeed, some items had been made with a skill and inner knowledge that would have earned praise even in Orthlund. Bowls and glasses, pictures, tapestries, jewellery, carvings in many materials, objects brought from far distant places, things of great beauty and harmony.

The tinker must have lied, Hawklan concluded even-tually. It was obvious on reflection. If the man knew the nature of the goods he was selling, and he surely must, then he would have no desire to have the source of such articles discovered.

Rather disconsolately, Hawklan went back to the rest area. Sitting with his back to the central pillar, he stared for a long time out through the open walls at the still busy market.

Shortly before sunset, the rain stopped and the cloud broke a little. Evening was heralded by a deep red sky and the plip-plopping of the last raindrops falling off leaves and gutters. The air was fresh and cool and clean, and Hawklan could hear the gurgling of water running along in places he could not see. Gradually he felt his despondency ease a little.

Gavor appeared from nowhere, looking very pleased with himself.

‘Ah. My faithful body shield,’ said Hawklan, raising an eyebrow. Gavor was only slightly abashed.

‘Dear boy. I did keep an eye on you for a long time, truly. Then I met an old friend, and we fell to talking and… ’

‘I know,’ said Hawklan. ‘Spare me the details. Your inability to resist the lusts of the feather is legendary. One of these days it’ll get you plucked. I thought this place would be too much for you as soon as you showed me those trees.’