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  Sweat soaked his back and collected at his waistband. What he was about to speak of was no less than treason. Of course it was only regarded as that if he was on the losing side; otherwise, he was involved in a brave selfless act for the heart of Lornwater, his city.

  “I would not seek your assistance if I didn’t feel sure of success.” He smiled. None returned his smile. They were deliberately making heavy going of this. He paused, unsure whether he should go on. No, the die was cast. He had committed his wife Jaora to it. He ground his teeth together. He must do this, or else her generous sacrifice would be in vain.

  As if unconcerned, he leaned forward on the table, laced his fingers together, as if praying to the Overlord. “I am at present involved in discussions with the Prince Royal himself to ensure that he will overthrow his father.”

  He scanned their eyes for any sign of disapproval or, worse, potential betrayal. Apart from a short intake of breath from each of them, he detected nothing untoward. He released a low sigh. Not out of the woods yet. No one seemed willing to speak about Daen Haltese, the Prince Royal. Was that a good thing, or not?

  “I assure you, gentlemen, the Prince Royal has the interests of the city’s people at heart, unlike his father.”

  Ban-so grunted, and then said, “You tread on dangerous ground, Baron.”

  “Our fellow citizens live in dangerous times. I would happily embrace danger if it will help our people.”

  Qued pursed his lips, as if vying with a troubled conscience. “I owe you first, Baron. My hand and sword is yours.”

  “Thank you, Qued.” Jhuren leaned back in his seat. “I knew I could rely on you,” he lied.

  Qued squinted at the others, who all nodded.

  Pelnoo toyed with a small pile of coins, finars, which he proceeded to gouge with his knife. “If you can promise the Prince Royal will do this, Baron, then you have our allegiance.”

  “Aye, I will assent to it,” Xarop added.

  “All right,” said Ban-so, “let us commit to this dark enterprise.”

  Jhuren leaned across the table, extended his hand. “Let us seal this agreement honourably, then.”

  They shook his hand in turn, each taking a scarred coin from Pelnoo, who said, “These finar are tokens that bind us in our endeavour.”

  ***

  Ensconced in a stall across the room, Badol Melomar supped his ale and studied the five at their table. By chance he had recognised Baron Laan as the man entered, despite his drab garb. The identities of the others then fell into place, despite their efforts at disguise in common clothing and hoods: Ban-so, Pelnoo, Qued and Xarop; nobles all.

  From this distance, he was unable to read their lips or hear what they said, but the cast of their features suggested that they were involved in a serious discussion. Judging by Pelnoo’s dislike of the king, it was quite possible that this was a conspiracy.

  Finally, they all shook hands and each received a coin. Strange. That coin signified something, as if they had entered into some kind of pact.

  Most interesting.

  The baron would bear watching.

  ***

  The gildhouse in sector twenty-seven overlooked Svernree Park, a short distance from the varteron barracks. Contrary to the king’s edict, a large number of gild members congregated here. The extraordinary meeting had been called because an urgent debate was deemed essential. Whispers during the carnival preparations had spread and it seemed that the mood was rife for an uprising. Plenty of times before, Saurosen had warranted the ire of one faction or another, yet until now the voices of dissent had been scattered, capable of being contained.

  Fascar Dak, Gildmaster of Precious Metals and the city’s Great Gildmaster, raised a hand for silence. On his left stood a man in a distinctive plaid cloak and plaid trousers, Watchman Xiat, who had been invited to monitor proceedings.

  To the hushed throng of thirty-five gildsmen, Fascar Dak intoned, his voice laced with sadness, “No matter how greatly we seek to cleave to the law, we cannot ignore the stresses and strains our city-folk endure under the yoke of our unfeeling king!”

  “Heresy!” whispered a few.

  “What of the doomsmen and watchmen?” demanded a member of the saddle-maker’s gild, Het-ab Lath, a known outspoken critic of any change. He jabbed a finger at Xiat. “They should enforce the law and stamp on anti-social behaviour and attitudes!”

  “Aye, business suffers with unrest!” asserted Bor-il Cashlas, a young firebrand.

  Olelsang stepped forward, shouted, “Law is administered by consent of the populace. Doomsmen and watchmen cannot single-handedly hold back a deluge of discontent. Is that not so, Watchman Xiat?”

  “Indeed,” Xiat said, bowing his head slightly. “We police with the people’s sufferance.”

  Murmurs of accord wafted up to him.

  Olelsang flushed with pleasure; his voice carried weight.

  He nodded to Fascar Dak, who went on, “It is word from a number of the doomsmen that impels me to speak to you today. Now, I urge you all to go among the people and gain a firm understanding of the ill-feeling, before it’s too late.”

  “Then what?” demanded a young gildsman.

  “Steady, lad,” intoned the powerfully built blacksmith gildmaster.

  Fascar Dak raised a hand. “If the strength of feeling is great – nay, overwhelming – then we must approach the king with a demand that he step down in favour of his son, Haltese.”

  “That’s lunacy!” the young gildsman shouted.

  “He’ll dismantle the gilds, throw us in prison!” added the blacksmith.

  Olelsang asked for quiet and added, “We have made precautions against that eventuality.” He clapped his hands above his head.

  In answer, the double interior doors groaned open and twenty armed men of the guard marched through onto the rear of the dais.

  “What is this?” demanded the blacksmith.

  “These troops have no jurisdiction here!” shrieked Het-ab Lath. “Their mandate is solely to man the walls. They have no business in the Gildhouse!”

  “Have no fear,” assured Fascar Dak. “The soldiers are present at my request. They will be our escort if we make any demands of the king.”

  The lead soldier wearing the insignia of Lieutenant saluted and slowly scanned those assembled. “Provided we hear no sedition, gildsmen, we will provide for your safety. Without the gilds, Lornwater would be weak and rudderless.”

  Olelsang bowed extravagantly. “Thank you for that endorsement, Cla-tan Bestere.”

  “It is not right,” said the blacksmith, “it’s too political!”

  “It’s unheard of, soldiers in our midst!” Het-ab Lath persisted.

  “It is tantamount to invoking martial law. We should evict them forthwith!” Bor-il Cashlas growled. Olelsang knew this young gildsman had argued bitterly with Lieutenant Cla-tan Bestere on a number of occasions when he didn’t abide by the city’s bylaws. Watchman Xiat had attempted to mediate, to no avail. Cashlas was looking for a fight. Indeed, Olelsang was banking on it.

  Lieutenant Cla-tan glared. “Evict twenty soldiers. How will you do that, loud-mouth?”

  “Please, Lieutenant,” interceded Gildmaster Fascar Dak. “The young gildsman means no disrespect. He is just–”

  The scuffle was totally unexpected by all save Olelsang and Het-ab Lath, who engineered it. Bodies shoved against others and the Gildmaster and the Lieutenant collided, knocking into the young Cashlas.

  “O, ye gods, no!”

  A knife gleamed aloft. Swords slid out of scabbards. The melee lasted the blink of an eye, and Olelsang stumbled away from them, clutching a bloody brow.

  Gasps of shock went up as soldiers and gildsmen backed off.

  There on the steps lay three bodies: Cashlas and a soldier; an army knife protruded from Gildmaster Fascar Dak’s chest. Nursing a wounded arm, the lieutenant knelt by the bodies.

  “Avenge our fallen comrade!” rose from the ranks, instigated by Het-ab Lath.
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  “No! Wait!” the lieutenant called out.

  Bodies jostled and fought, armour clanging, swords singing in the air, and white clothing was quickly stained red. In the tussle, the powerfully built blacksmith gildmaster broke the necks of two soldiers before he was stabbed repeatedly by four blades.

  By the time the lieutenant’s shouting got through to his men, seventeen gildsmen and two soldiers lay sprawled on the floor, covered in blood.

  The surviving gildsmen backed towards the entrance doors, some of them with blood-splattered clothing; many eyes were fearful, a few scornful, one or two narrowed, cunning. “You’re going to massacre us all?” Het-ab Lath demanded.

  “No,” Lieutenant Cla-tan said, “it was a mistake. Heat-of-the-moment.” His arms gestured vaguely. “Things got out of hand.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Het-ab shrieked. “You planned this all along, to be rid of us!”

  Olelsang wiped a sleeve over his bloody brow. “That’s enough, gildsmen! We must see to our dead.” He hadn’t anticipated there would be so many deaths, and he was surprised there were none only wounded. Clearly, there was an underlying hatred fuelling these soldiers – hatred of gildsmen specifically or all civilians?

  No matter. It would work to his own good, he felt sure.

  He turned to the lieutenant. “There will have to be an inquiry to apportion blame.”

  Lieutenant Cla-tan shook his head. “No, Gildmaster of saddles, it is done, and that’s an end to it. My men acted to protect me and their own. Gildsmen wielding knives in the gild chamber is against the law.”

  “But we carry knives for–”

  “For ceremonial purposes, just so. In the presence of my men, a drawn weapon constitutes a threat. You should know that.”

  Olelsang studied his feet. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I did know – but I had forgotten.”

  The lieutenant grunted, pivoted on his heel and ordered his men to collect their dead and leave. They departed by the rear entrance, the way they had come such a short time ago.

  Kneeling by the corpse of Gildmaster Fascar Dak, Olelsang raised a hand and described a sigil in the air, and then murmured a prayer of thanks. It seemed his earlier prayers were answered. These deaths paved the way for his purposes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TREMORS

  “If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?”

  - Dialogues of Meshanel

  Goldalese

  Aurelan Crossis urged his horse on to Goldalese, with his men riding alongside. Now the time of final reckoning was approaching. It had taken much longer than he’d hoped or planned – ill luck, conniving circumstances and the will of capricious gods had delayed his vengeful hand.

  His men were waiting for him to the dunsaron of the city. There were close to five hundred followers. Some of them were exiled for minor infractions, others were outlaws, while a good many had been freed during the notorious Gor-manov prison outbreak; others had long since sworn allegiance to Aurelan even though he had no banner and no authority to enlist soldiers into a small army. The disquiet engendered by Saurosen was the men’s incentive. Aurelan simply took advantage, fashioning them into a fighting unit. Messengers brought news that other groups were already converging on Dhur Bridge; he hoped the final number would be in the thousands.

  The sun was sinking behind them as they approached Goldalese. Red hues reflected off the city walls, the air shimmering above the turrets and towers. Flags flapped atop tall poles in the early evening wind that rushed down from the Sonalume Mountains.

  Aurelan led a small group of men ahead of the main group and headed towards the city. He turned briefly in his saddle; the host behind was impressive – but could also be construed as threatening.

  So he was not surprised to note twenty horsemen in silver armour riding out with the king’s emissary, the royal pennant fluttering.

  They all halted together, horses kicking up dust.

  “I come in peace,” Aurelan said, gesturing behind him. “My small force is here for your annual tournament and seeks only rest and refreshment in your city.”

  “You come from Lornwater?” the emissary enquired.

  “Many do, yes. They are troubled by the unrest to be found there. These are grim days for the three cities.”

  “You do not seek permanent shelter or succour behind our walls?”

  “No, emissary. Just rest and a little trade. If you will permit us to make camp outside the city walls?”

  “Very well. Make it so.” The emissary bowed slightly. “Indeed, we are doubly honoured to receive a second contingent from Lornwater.”

  “Second contingent?”

  “Aye, the Lord-General of Lornwater himself, not long since.”

  “Of course,” said Aurelan, nodding. “He is on his way to Endawn. A family matter, I believe, rather than one of state.” He smiled, for he knew Lord-General Launette sought to ally his family with Asselyn, Prince Royal of Endawn. While the Lord-General had no hunger for power for himself, he relished the role of power-broker. “Though I follow the Lord-General’s caravan,” he lied, “my destination is here, for the time being.”

  “How long do you intend to stay outside our walls?”

  “I cannot say, in truth. But be assured, our intentions are directed outside the walls of Goldalese.” He gestured at his men. “I trust they will be made welcome in your city?”

  “Your people may visit the city, but only in groups of twenty at a time.”

  Aurelan Crossis conceded this stricture. Most of his men didn’t care; the majority of them had camp followers to satisfy their needs, and plenty of drink to slake any thirst.

  The emissary would know full well that the caterers and chefs would provide adequate food from the markets of Goldalese to keep their bellies content. And the extra trade would not go amiss; they didn’t want to repair furniture, windows and broken families if a horde descended at once on the place.

  Economics ruled, not the sword, Aurelan decided as the emissary returned to the city. A wave of sadness swamped over him. Maybe the old ways were already moribund.

  Now, as he rode up to his tent, he was greeted with a salute by his lieutenant, who had been left in charge, a trustworthy man and an old friend from long ago. He dismounted. “The men are contented, Danscar?”

  “Surely, Captain.” He was tall, with broad shoulders, perpetual stubble, a flat nose, and prominent cheekbones that carried two deep scars. “But some are growing restless. Once the tournament begins they will simmer less.”

  Mindful that he must wait for Lord Tanellor’s signal, and there was no telling how long that would be, he thought Danscar was right. It was a lucky coincidence that the annual tournament was due. “Get them to prepare for the tourney, make the arrangements.”

  As Danscar saluted, Aurelan added, “I don’t want too much blood spilled – let it be understood that they will shed plenty soon enough.”

  Danscar’s light blue eyes glinted and his thin lips curved sanguinely. “They’ll be pleased to hear that, Captain.”

  ***

  Fourth Durin of Juvous

  Jahdemor Fane, Lornwater

  High Priest Senstar leaned on his staff and was mightily pleased. The congregation mumbled and whispered; the throng was so great in the fane that there were no spare seats. A pity it took a massacre of gildsmen to bring about such obeisance to the true religion! This new popularity would silence the misguided adherents to the dark religions that had grown since the last schism in the faith.

  He lifted his arms to call for silence and the murmuring died down.

  “Fellow believers, fellow citizens, we come to offer thanks for the lives of so many good men, slain in their prime!”

  “Revenge,” a man shouted, “we seek revenge!”

  More voices took up similar cries.

  Senstar banged the base of his staff on the tiled floor. The sound echoed, brought an uneasy quiet. He scanned the front rank of attendees. He believed a good portion of them
were simply present for reasons of duty rather than belief. Baron Laan Jhuren, Gildmaster Olelsang, Ulran Ranell, Hansear Lorar and her father, Master Goldsmith Hansear Mowensar. Certain noses would be put out of joint, he knew, when this service was concluded. It could not be helped.

  “Pray with me for our dead!” he urged in a magisterial tone.

  He watched as, almost as one, the individuals in the congregation bowed their heads. Slowly, deliberately, Senstar delivered his planned oratory, determined not to mention the king’s soldiers. He would not invoke violence while within this sacred fane. Not that there was much risk, since the gild of assassins had placed a protective force outside the doors.

  He noticed that Gildmaster Olelsang’s accolytes were spread throughout the congregation, some even at the back, near the doors; what was the devious man planning?

  The service went well, the responses from those gathered sounded sincere and full of heart. The undercurrent of anger and desire for vengeance seemed still-born.

  He lowered his head for a moment of silence, and then straightened up, gripping his staff tightly. “Baron Laan, please come forward.”

  The baron left his group and climbed the dais steps. He was sombrely dressed in loose-fitting trousers and silk shirt and a sash for a belt, all favouring brown shades. His ankle-high black leather boots glistened, as did the hilt of his dagger inserted in the sash.

  Stroking his long white beard and moustache, the baron said, “The time for religion is past. Now, we must talk of terrible things.”

  Murmuring rose from the back. Senstar noted a look of puzzlement on the face of Olelsang, and was amused.