Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

‘I really must go now,’ said Gavor eventually.

‘You must allow me to help you find your friend, Gavor,’ said Andawyr. ‘I insist.’ He raised a finger to indicate he would hear no refusal. ‘From what you say, I fear you may be right. I think your friend could be in great danger, and many others besides. And I doubt he’s in any position to defend himself. Just excuse me for one moment.’ And he turned and went into the tent.

Gavor heard him talking to someone, then he reap-peared, smiling and rubbing his hands. Gavor stared at him awkwardly. He had no wish to return his kindness with rudeness, but this little old man wasn’t going to be much use.

‘Andawyr,’ he said. ‘It’s most kind of you to offer. But you don’t even know what Hawklan looks like, and you can’t possibly travel as fast as I can.’

‘True,’ replied Andawyr. ‘But I know the Gretmearc-almost its every nook and cranny, and you don’t. Believe me, you’ve barely begun to get to know it. You couldn’t cover it in seven such nights as you’ve spent tonight. Ten, even. And we healers must stick together, mustn’t we?’

Dilrap puffed and flustered his way down the stairs and along the marble floored corridors of the Palace. The formal robes of his office seemed to have been specially designed to accentuate his wobbling shape and his fluttering concerns: long, wide sleeves eternally having to be hitched back so that he could use his hands; a full length and voluminous gown hanging down from his stomach and, when not threatening to trip him, snagging on some nearby object; a neckline totally unsuitable for such sloping shoulders requiring the almost permanent use of one hand or the other, and a ceremonial hood which invariably fell in front of his eyes whenever disarray in his garments required attention.

Luckless heir to the traditionally hereditary position of King’s Secretary, Dilrap fought a perpetual and losing battle to live up to the dignified standard set by his late father. He had much of his father’s integrity and fine intellect, but he was also burdened by a fair portion of his mother’s more hysterical temperament, and this, coupled with years of coping with the arbitrary wilfulness of King Rgoric and the searing contempt of Lord Dan-Tor, had effectively reduced him to a jumble of bewildered reflex responses.

His attire signalled the same message relentlessly. Even when standing still, he was apt to look as if he had been caught unexpectedly in a strong breeze, so many and varied were his jerks and twitches.

Today, he was worse than usual. The King’s fey and wayward mood persisted still. Too long parted from the ministrations of Lord Dan-Tor, Dilrap concluded, though in the past, he had to admit, the King’s first adviser had been absent for far longer periods without the King becoming so… unsettled.

Then there were all these unsavoury new Guards cluttering up the place. They seemed disciplined enough, but without exception they radiated a peculiar viciousness, and, when off-duty were, for the most part, ill-mannered and uncouth. Ethriss alone knew where most of them had been collected from.

And now these four grim-faced Lords with their warlike formal dress! Dilrap nervously flicked the shoulders of his robe as he pursued his reluctant errand.

He had tried to tell the King that the suspension at the Geadrol was at best unwise and at worst illegal. Tried to suggest that perhaps he should wait for the return of the Lord Dan-Tor. But all to no avail. Receiv-ing nothing for his pains but a stinging rebuke, he had chosen to say nothing when these sinister new Guards appeared, to replace the seconded High Guards who had been stood down for the Festival. To say nothing, even though he had known full well that such a guard, independent of the Lords, was indisputably illegal and would further enrage those who, Grand Festival or no, must surely be coming, angry-eyed, to confront their King over his suspension of the Geadrol. As for calling them his own High Guard, that merely added calculated insult to the deed.

Dilrap’s mind shied away from everything that had happened recently, not least the implications of how such a large and organized force could suddenly have sprung into existence. The whole mess stank of Lord Dan-Tor’s scheming prematurely implemented by the king to appease who knew what fevered whim. He wanted none of it. Let the Lords deal with the King, if they could. Let the King explain everything to his Lords, if he could.

And here they were. Two black clad Guards opened a pair of double doors for him, and as he felt them close behind him, Dilrap leaned back briefly before stepping around the elaborately decorated screen that hid the door from the rest of the room. He wished, as he wished almost every day, that he was far away, tilling soil, or tending cattle-just doing something else-anything else, in fact.

With a twitch of the head, and hitching the right shoulder of his gown into a position of temporary equilibrium, he prepared to address the four Lords.

The room was large and elegant, though its wooden panelling and paintings of past Kings and past tales were thrown into a dusty shade by the spring sunshine flooding in through the tall arched windows that ran down one side. The four men, dressed formally and fully armed, as was the tradition, looked out of place among the delicate tables and chairs, even though their attitudes showed no belligerence. They had been standing in silence for some time in different parts of the room, and Dilrap watched them as they turned and quietly converged on him like predators finding prey.

He had known them all for many years. Eldric, a solid, old-fashioned Fyordyn Lord; paternal, compas-sionate and just, with a personal aura like a rock. Arinndier, taller and physically more imposing than Eldric, but giving the impression almost of being his elder son. Hreldar, well-rounded and jolly. In Hreldar, Dilrap saw a physically kindred spirit, though the Lord’s easy and pleasant disposition was far removed from his own nervous clamourings. And finally Darek; lawyer Darek. Thin-faced, lean, and generally coldly formal. Dilrap always had the feeling that Darek found him distasteful, though his conduct was invariably punctili-ous. Ironically however, Darek had considerable respect for the Honoured Secretary’s legal and administrative skills, and no small sympathy for the man.

Now however, Dilrap’s long acquaintance with them told him nothing. Eldric seemed concerned and uncertain. Arinndier looked almost nervous. Hreldar was uncharacteristically grim, and Darek had a look of fierce restraint in his eyes that Dilrap could not meet.

He bowed.

‘Lords,’ he said, hitching up a sleeve, ‘the King has consented to receive you, although he would have preferred that you wait until the Lord Dan-Tor was here as he is suffering from a recurrence of his fever. He feels that because of his condition he may not be able to sustain too long a conversation; honoured though he is by your presence.’

‘How long will it be before the Lord Dan-Tor re-turns, Honoured Secretary?’ asked Eldric.

Dilrap twitched and shrugged his shoulders. ‘He’s been gone for some weeks now, Lord,’ he replied. ‘He doesn’t normally leave the King for too long if he feels that his fever is likely to return, but I fear he’s mis-judged the matter this time. I fear also that wherever he is, he knows nothing of the King’s condition or he’d have been back by now.’

Knowing the answer, Eldric asked. ‘And you don’t know where he is?’

Dilrap hitched up his gown again then, looking at Eldric squarely, shook his head.

‘You know the Lord Dan-Tor, Lord. He comes and goes as he pleases, and tells no one, least of all, me. I’ve no idea where he is or when he’ll return.’