Janny Wurts - To Ride Hell’s Chasm

‘What about this, then?’ The seneschal passed across another state document, also set under Devall’s royal seal. The writ underneath framed a formal request to King Isendon, asking grant for the High Prince’s honour guard to exercise autonomous authority to conduct a private search for Princess Anja.

Taskin glanced at the king, still asleep, his circlet tipped askew over hanks of thinned hair, and his wristbones poked like bleached sticks from the glitter of his elaborately embroidered sleeve cuffs.

Sorrow and regret softened the response the commander returned to the seneschal. ‘Lord Shaillon, don’t set Sessalie’s seal to Devall’s request, not just yet. At least hold off until after I’ve had the chance to question the Captain of the Garrison. Although you hold the man in contempt, My sh kael may have had a sound reason for drawing his steel on the high prince’s advocate.’

‘No reason can excuse a rank breach of manners,’ the seneschal fumed. ‘Let me remind you, the official your desert-bred cur has insulted is an accredited royal ambassador! The wrist-slap penalty you’re proposing is child’s play! In Devall, by law, for the same offence, the wretch would lose his right hand.’

Taskin contained the quick flash of his temper. ‘I’ll remember, some time, to show you a man whose back bears healed scars from the whip. No pretty sight, I assure you, Lord Shaillon, with the sensible benefit that afterwards, the soldier can still bear arms in the kingdom’s defence!’

‘We speak of an outlander,’ the seneschal bristled. ‘Not one of our own, but a mongrel of low background, and questionable habits. Since when do we look to a desert-bred’s brawling to conduct our affairs of state? How dare you suggest such a creature should taint a decision concerning a prince who stands to become our pledged ally, joined to our kingdom by the kin ties of wedlock!’

Yet even for royal protocol, Taskin refused to back down. ‘Captain My sh kael is a red-blooded man, invested by oath, and in service as one of Sessalie’s crown officers.’

‘A mistake we should rectify. Should have done so, and long since. Shame on us all, that a penniless adventurer should be allowed to take rank advantage of the opportunity presented by our summer tourney. We cannot afford to risk a misjudgement. Not when the man might be the paid agent for some unknown enemy’s plotting.’ As Taskin took umbrage, the seneschal raised a stabbing finger and ranted straight on. ‘We are faced with a crisis! At the least, such a foreigner ought to be set aside under lock and key. He must be removed from his post at the garrison, and a trusted man set in his place.’

‘Fury and rhetoric will not grant Devall your endorsement, Lord Shaillon.’ Taskin’s gaze flicked past the seneschal’s shoulder, towards the sovereign slumped in the state chair. ‘The command to discharge My sh kael must arise from the hand of King Isendon himself.’

‘A mumbling dodderer who drools in his sleep,’ huffed the seneschal. ‘When his Majesty wakens, confused, be sure I shall get the permission I need to set Sessalie’s seal on these edicts. I’ll have others drawn up in sensible language that will take steps to protect our security.’

Taskin gave back a wolfish smile, his posture held at smart attention.

‘But I’m not asleep,’ interjected King Isendon. ‘Nor am I drifting, just at the moment.’ He straightened his trembling shoulders, imperious, and snapped his fingers sharp as a whip crack. ‘Give over those documents held in dispute. Yes. Set them in Taskin’s hands. I leave the matter of Devall’s complaints in his charge to address as he sees fit.’ The damp, weary eyes tracked the seneschal’s sullen capitulation until the requisite papers changed hands.

‘That will do, Shaillon,’ said the king, dismissing all argument.

‘Commander,’ he continued, ‘you have mentioned a forthcoming inquiry over the conduct of Captain My sh kael? That is well. Treat with him fairly. If he brings any news of my daughter from the garrison, I expect an immediate audience.’

Taskin bowed. ‘Your Majesty.’ He tucked the state documents under his arm. By the time he turned in smart strides towards the doorway, the king’s gaze had already lost focus.

The seneschal surged at the commander’s heels in a bothered flutter of velvets. Ever determined to snatch the last word, he found his officious presence impeded by four immaculate crown guardsmen.

‘Bertarra is right,’ he snapped under his breath. ‘All these sentries are a nuisance in the royal chamber.’

‘Necessary every man of them,’ Taskin retorted as he breezed on his way down the corridor. ‘King Isendon’s safety is my bailiwick, Seneschal, and no subject for you or Sessalie’s chancellors to lay open to mauling debate.’

The crossroads market outside the town wall was a noisy, sprawling event that bloomed on a patch of packed earth with each dawn, and melted away every sundown. The throng of itinerant pedlars, freebooting hucksters and farmwives who traded the odd head of livestock held no crown licence to sell. Too shiftless to maintain a stall in the town, they simply gathered and spread out their wares, or pounded in stakes for their picket lines. The result clogged the verge where the trade road met the cart track which snaked down from the alpine vales.

The regulars hunkered under rickety awnings, an ill-fashioned jumble of pegged burlap and canvas that fluttered and snapped in the breeze. Packs of raggedy children screamed and ran wild, through the singsong patter of the hawkers. On fair days, the blind beggar who told stories spread his blanket under the shade of the ancient oak that also, infrequently, served as the royal gallows. The dented tin bowl he set out for coppers always sat on the plank where the hangman’s stair mounted the scaffold.

The hour, by then, approached mid-afternoon. Slanting sun fell like ruled brass through the branches. The odd scattered dollop licked the head and shoulders of the man in the hooded penitent’s robe. He sat, one leg crossed and the other extended, in the dust at the storyteller’s feet. The pair of them shared companionable talk, and a meal of bread crusts and boiled beef.

‘Ah, then it’s horses, now?’ the beggar said, his rich voice slipped into the broad Trakish dialect learned from his mother in childhood. ‘You’re wanting to bet? That was the hot topic, rightly enough, until this sad tale of the princess overshadowed all else.’ Paused for a sigh, he rubbed grease from his fingers, then recovered his dauntless, sly smile. ‘Do you fancy the races, or maybe the outstanding team for the match of steed wickets next month?’

‘Perhaps both, maybe neither,’ said Mykkael in the same tongue. He folded the last slice of meat in a bread chunk, and laid the offering into the storyteller’s outstretched palm. ‘If I wanted to locate an animal of a certain description, perhaps to inquire if it was for sale, who would be likely to know where to look?’

‘A rascal.’ Moved to bursting laughter, the storyteller turned his face, sightless eyes bound with a scarlet rag to keep his affliction from upsetting the children. ‘Vangyar, the horse thief, could answer your question. Knows every creature with hooves in this valley, and speaks like a breeder’s textbook. Won’t be so easy for you to approach him.’ The beggar rapped the scaffold post at his back. ‘Crown law sends his sort to dance with the rope.’

Mykkael shrugged. ‘I don’t know of any man or woman in Sessalie who is forced to steal out of hunger.’ Hands clasped over his tucked-up knee, he waited until the beggar stopped chewing before he finished his thought. ‘I’m seeking a horse with particular markings, not pursuing a writ for arrest.’