Floreskand_King Page 7

  Baron Laan said, “Now is time to talk about joining with Prince Haltese and overthrowing the tyrant Saurosen!”

  His words caught many unawares.

  Baron Laan went on, “Our families grieve for the miners who died in the Oxor cave-in. We know why that tragedy happened, don’t we?”

  “Yes – Saurosen wouldn’t spend his exchequer money on safety measures!” piped up an articulate man, clearly a miner.

  “Indeed!” Baron Laan thundered. “And our festival is a shadow of its former self. We hardly dare act merry, the taxes and edicts weigh so heavily on our shoulders!”

  “Mine more than yours, I warrant, Lord!” chipped in a wit.

  Baron Laan bowed slightly. “Yes, I do not suffer as greatly as many of you. But I care. Can the same be said of Saurosen?”

  “No!” chorused a host of voices.

  “He cares not a whit!” exclaimed the wit.

  So soon, thought Senstar. So soon has Baron Laan fomented anti-Saurosen feeling.

  A few of Olelsang’s men tried to shout down the baron, but they were overridden by the majority.

  Senstar noticed the consternation on Olelsang’s face and finally understood. It was clear: Olelsang had cherished the idea of being the rabble-rouser. Had he engineered the massacre to this end, to gain support for himself? Senstar felt a chill round his heart at the thought. No gildmaster would contemplate such a move, surely? To hold life so cheap…

  ***

  Now, Olelsang signalled to his followers and then said, “I pledge my support and that of my gild to you, Baron Laan!” The words threatened to choke him, but he got them out, though barely. Damn them, he didn’t want the Prince Royal to become king; he wanted a republic! He hoped his disappointment didn’t show in his face.

  The baron bowed. “I would thank you, Gildmaster Olelsang, but it is the populace who should thank you, not me.”

  What did he mean by that? Unsure, Olelsang returned the bow. He studied Ranell, who looked pleased with himself. It was obvious, the son of Ulran was as devious as his sire; he’d pre-arranged for the baron to address the congregation. And a swift appraisal of Senstar confirmed that he too had been involved. We can all play at intrigue, he told himself. Ranell and the others would pay for their treachery, Olelsang vowed. As soon as I can get away, I must go and see Badol Melomar, a man who had no love for the family who owned the Red Tellar.

  Scanning the faces of the others, Olelsang pondered on the consternation mirrored in the features of Hansear Lorar. She was reportedly Ranell’s chosen woman. As the daughter of a Master Goldsmith, who seemed quiescient in the congregation, she was of considerable worth. She didn’t seem too pleased about the allegiance of Baron Laan and Ranell. Olelsang fingered his long braided plaits of hair. Maybe her troubled brow could be soothed in some way? He would dwell on the possibilities, which offered to be of considerable delight.

  “Tomorrow,” Senstar bellowed, breaking into Olelsang’s thoughts, “we will meet to elect the Great Gildmaster to replace our friend Fascar Dak. Tomorrow’s date will echo through the annals of our history as a turning point. Do not be tardy.” With that, he dismissed the congregation.

  ***

  Red Tellar Inn, Lornwater

  While Osa fed baby Uka, snuggling her close, she was disturbed by a loud rumble of the ground beneath her feet.

  This was troubling. Perhaps it was a sign. She believed she enjoyed stability in her life at last, but this tremor threatened terrible upheaval, and in truth, even though she was no longer a slave, her future could be spoiled in an instant, by another person’s whim.

  She must seek to obtain more security.

  And it must be at the side of Ranell. That thought pleased her. She experienced an inner glow and stroked the head of little Uka.

  ***

  Nemond palace, Old City, Lornwater

  Nemond Thand experienced the tremor too, and felt vindicated: the Underpeople are restless, he pronounced to himself, since nobody deigned to keep him company. His world had been riven with minor tremors, he recalled.

  He thought back to tales from his childhood, inflicted upon him by his dreadful child-carers regarding their ancestors.

  At the time of the mine collapse in 1823, when a number of Doltra sector dwellings sank beneath the earth into flooded tunnels, the royal attendants were ordered to complete the grisly task of extracting King Kculicide from the sunken ruins, as he had been visiting, Thand later discovered, Nemond Tif. Though the discovery was kept quiet, the Nemond family eventually learned from one inebriated retainer that Tif was found with her throat encircled by the dark bony fingers of a human creature, something hideous that resembled the underpeople of myth.

  Even now, he shuddered at the memory of those tales.

  ***

  Adama, Thand’s mother felt the tremor also. “Mother, did you feel that?” she asked.

  “I did. It bodes ill, I fear. I have survived many a cataclysm that was announced with a tremor of this intensity. We must ensure that the earth swallows Lord-General Yordine Launette soon. I fear he is too devious for our family’s good.”

  “That is drastic, mother, is it not?”

  “It is only a manner of speaking, but the need for that man to be buried is most necessary. Do not concern yourself with the matter, my dear. I have the ear of a man or two who will do my bidding.” Dori grinned and Adama glanced away, struck by the malevolence in her mother’s eyes.

  ***

  Lornwater

  Many individuals in the three cities noticed the tremor. Afterwards, the elderly balding gardener in Svernree Park scratched his head. The water that had filled the sinkhole for some time now rippled and gurgled in response to the tremor.

  As he stared, the water began to recede.

  He wondered if the water was destined for the underground tunnels beneath the city.

  That would drown the Underpeople – if he’d believed in such nonsense.

  He swore, because the loss meant his task in the park was harder, since he would have to haul water a goodly distance to the park. Under his breath, he cursed Mussor, the black less-lord.

  ***

  The fane to Arqitor, Great Lady of Land, was crammed with people, mostly women, praying that this tremor would not presage more severe upheaval. From the side of the altar, Charja Nev, a daughter of the goddess, watched, her brow troubled.

  She had not long returned from Oxor, where she discovered in herself an overpowering fear of death. And now she was tortured with an almost incapacitating dread that she was not competent to offer solace to Our Lady’s flock. The need for succour glistened in the eyes of those assembled. The prayers from Sister Umerma the prime sister of the fane, seemed to calm them, however. If only Dear Daughter Umerma’s words would have that effect on me, Charja thought.

  Worse, all her geologist training suggested that the land to the varteron was shifting. Whether that was linked to the recent new activity of Altohey, she didn’t know. She prayed to Our Lady that they were not about to relive that catastrophe when the great rifts widened and spread, threatening Lornwater with destruction: that dark time, the time of the Doltra Complex collapse.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHISTLE

  “A whistling woman and a crowing hen are

  neither fit for the Overlord nor men.”

  - The Lay of Lorgen

  Underground

  Dasse Wenn started in his bedroll. “What was that?”

  Sos gestured vaguely while K-Kwan changed his wound’s dressing. “A rumbling – maybe it was another cave-in?”

  Dasse massaged his bandaged elbow; the swelling had reduced but, Sos guiltily noticed, his arm appeared bent at an odd angle now. “Could be, it was underneath us.”

  “Arqitor is angry,” K-Kwan intoned.

  “The very earth seemed to tremble,” Dasse moaned.

  “That’s not unusual,” Sos replied. “As a miner, you should know that. Mountains move. The Daughters of Arqitor say all mount
ains move, some more than others. Look at the volcanos of the Manderonranmerron Fault, they will show you how fragile the soil is beneath our feet!”

  “I don’t know,” Dasse mumbled. “It was different, somehow…”

  Sos prayed to Arqitor, great Lady of Land, and K-Kwan joined him.

  “You waste your breath on her,” Dasse snapped.

  “I’d rather pray to her than Saurosen any time!”

  “If by that you imply I worship the king, you’re mistaken! I’m just happy with my lot. One king’s as bad as another!” Dasse winced. “If we hadn’t argued over the king, we wouldn’t be stuck down here now.”

  “No,” Sos allowed. “We’d probably be dead, crushed in the explosion!”

  “Aye, you have a point there, Rujon Sos.”

  “I’ll pray for my wife, if you don’t mind.”

  “She’ll think you’re among the dead, you know.”

  “I fear you may be right.” His heart overturned at the thought. His need to see Telicia was as strong as his wish to emerge into daylight and breathe fresh air; when they were together, she seemed to breathe life into him, made him proud to be an Oxor miner.

  “You pray for your spouse?” queried K-Kwan.

  “Yes. I want to see her before I die.”

  “Why do you think you will die?” she asked, tilting her head to one side.

  “The grumbling earth. I fear there will be another cave-in and we will not survive it.”

  She opened her mouth slightly, revealing small brown teeth; was that a smile? “The earth moves all the time.”

  “Yes, but of late the movements have been more severe. Troublesome. Not that the king or the nobles seem to care…”

  “Ah, your superiors, the people you slave for?”

  “Slave?” Sos shook his head. “We are not slaves, we’re given a wage.” He let out a laugh. “Though it is barely enough to live on.”

  “Some Myndrachons have communed with your fellow miners while trading with them. They all say the same thing and resent the rulers that compel them to work underground.”

  “You’ve spoken to miners of Lornwater before?”

  “Not I,” she said. “But many in Heedwise have, and they feel kinship with your kind.”

  “Who or what is Heedwise?” he asked. “I thought you were Myndrachons.”

  “Heedwise, that is our tribe, who live here,” she answered.

  “You have other tribes, then?”

  “Oh, yes. Dozens, all belonging to the Myndrachon group; we follow Arqitor.” She spat on the ground. “Our sworn enemies live under the cities, they follow Nikkonslor; they belong to the Nhyrachon group.” She spread her arms wide. “All live under the land you call Floreskand.”

  “I didn’t realise all these people were living under our very feet! Don’t you resent us being here, digging through your underworld?”

  K-Kwan shrugged. “Most of our people can live with your incursions of our homeland. Some have traded food and clothing in exchange for details about the sites of the best seams to dig.”

  “I didn’t know that, either!” Sos whistled. “So that’s how our so-called surveyors find the seams!” He peered at her in alarm.

  K-Kwan had covered her ears with her hands and screwed-up her eyes tight.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, but she shook her head, and he realised she couldn’t hear him with her ears covered. Instead, he sent a thought: What is wrong, are you hurt?

  The noise you made when you pursed your lips, it was painful to my mind.

  My whistle?

  Is that what you call it? Whistle?

  Yes. We whistle to attract attention, to make music and even to express admiration at something.

  She nodded. Please desist down here. I suspect that our ears are too finely tuned to be comfortable with that pitch.

  “Sorry,” he said as she removed her hands from her ears. “I didn’t know. I was surprised your people had been in touch with mine. That is wonderful.”

  “Not all the Ratava look kindly on you interlopers. A few tribes resent you, and the Nhyrachons will kill you rather than talk to you. We have a militant group who voiced their disapproval of your presence. So far, we’ve pacified them. We only hope that your mine tunnels do not greatly interfere with ours, which we fear might give them reason to rise up against you.”

  ***

  Goldalese

  Outside the city walls, the flaps of tent doors fluttered and pennons on lances danced and cracked in the afternoon breeze from the dunsaron. Aurelan Crossis stood at the entrance to his tent alongside Danscar, studying the encampment.

  To their right, an area had been roped off and within the square two men wrestled while onlookers cheered, jeered and bet money on the outcome.

  To their left, several gambling tables had been erected and money and cards exchanged hands. Beyond, a trestle table was laden with pitchers of beer, wine and bread. Voices were raised from time to time, but he detected no anger, no threats. His men were relaxed, eager for the evening’s festivities. “They seem keen for the tournament, Danscar.”

  “They crave action. I’ve already reprimanded two men for fighting over a wager. Organised fighting will let loose some of their juices. Inaction is the curse of a fighting man. Their joints and muscles seize-up.”

  “Yes, I know that feeling well.” He pointed to two horsemen approaching from the city. “We have noble company, it seems.”

  The two riders were dressed in silver cuirass and helms and carried battle shields and long swords. “Yo, we wish to enter the tournament!” called one.

  “You are most welcome,” Aurelan said and bowed. “You will stay for refreshment while the lists are compiled?”

  “Aye, we would be honoured.”

  ***

  The annual tournament was a noisy, good-humoured and colourful affair. Aurelan enjoyed the break. It had a purpose, for it tested the mettle of many men and, surprisingly, only a handful sustained serious injuries.

  Halas Chevelf was a bald strongman capable of lifting two men above his head at a time. He won honours in wrestling but was incapable of running at all; he was only able to stride ponderously. As for fighting with a sword, he was easily outwitted by opponents who circled and constantly attacked, wearing him down. Even so, he was respected and a useful man to fight by your side.

  Aurelan was surprised by the prowess of two swarthy soldiers: Jumo Bem and Murar Hun fought well against Goldalese opponents, winning trophies. They were an unlikely pair. Jumo Bem was portly, short and, annoyingly, whistled through a gap in the front teeth when he spoke. Murar Hun was his opposite, wiry with a scrawny neck, a long pointed nose, tufts of hair sticking out of an otherwise bald head; but his head was hard since he survived vicious blows and overcome everyone he fought.

  At the close of the tournament, when the trophies and rewards were distributed, it amused Aurelan to reward Bem and Hun with an evening in a renowned Goldalese pleasure house, aptly named Delightful Demesne.

  ***

  Fourth Durinma of Juvous

  Twilight was settling over the land as Aurelan Crossis sat with Danscar outside his tent near the walls of Goldalese, each nursing a goblet of wine.

  “It’s been a good day,” said Danscar.

  “So it has.” Then Aurelan spotted a messenger bird and its companion and for a brief instant his spirits rose as he thought word had come from Tanellor already. But no, the saptor was heading to the manderon. He pointed. “Looks like a Nemond bird, doesn’t it?”

  “Aye, it’s distinctive enough,” Danscar observed. “Blue-painted wingtips signify the Nemond house colours.”

  “Chasing Lord-General Launette, I shouldn’t wonder,” Aurelan mused.

  “Or someone in his caravan.”

  “Just so. I hope nothing is amiss.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  ALLEGIANCE

  “We drink to each other’s health, but spoil our own.”

  - Anonymous

  Du
sk feathered the varteron sky as the portly Jumo Bem and the wiry Murar Hun sauntered through the Goldalese gates at a time they’d secretly arranged yesterday. Instead of making their way to the Delightful Demesne pleasure house, their purported destination, they wended along alleys and byways, and arrived at a tall cracked and crumbling crooked structure that would probably answer to the description the Wizened Watchtower if it had a name at all.

  Bem hesitated at the ancient wooden door emblazoned with esoteric symbols. Presently, he knocked twice, and then after a pause, a third time.

  The door was unbolted and creaked open. A thin exceedingly wrinkled and emaciated woman peered at them, her face covered in warts; Bem wondered if the tower was named after her. “You have business here?”

  “Lornwater business,” explained Bem, his words whistling through two broken front teeth.

  She moved aside, opened the door and let him in. “Only one,” she said.

  Bem glanced at Hun. “Wait here, I won’t be long.”

  Fingering the knife at his belt, Hun grunted agreement, wiped a sleeve under his drooling long nose and turned to squint down the street.

  The woman was dressed in a homespun cotton shift, her bare feet slapping on the floorboards. “This way.” She led him along a passage and then they ascended several flights of groaning stairs without stopping.

  By the time he reached the top landing, Bem was out of breath, though the woman seemed unperturbed by any exertion.

  She opened the only door on the landing. “Go in. The saptorman is waiting for you.”

  Bem lowered his head and entered the loft.

  Light percolated through slits in the sloping wood roof. The place stank of bird-droppings. Birds cooed and clucked. Framed in a window embrasure was the silhouette of a stooped man.

  “You wish to send a messenger bird, soldier?” the saptorman said. His voice was coarse and rattled in his throat.

  “Aye. To Lornwater.”

  The saptorman bobbed his head repeatedly, almost like a pigeon. “I have two available. Which family is the recipient of the message?”

  “Daen.”