There was a gasp from the crowd in the immediate vicinity and a space opened around him. The two men stared at one another and slowly the square became quiet. Women started to lead their children away urgently. The Mathidrin drinking on the far side of the square stood up to see what was happening and several of them began to move forward expectantly, pushing their way deep into the crowd.
Then, into the silence, came the harsh, rhythmic sound of approaching footsteps. The rider and the stallholder paused and within seconds a Mathidrin foot patrol entered the square. The insulted leader stood in his stirrups and signalled to it. It turned towards him urgently, but its formation soon became extended and fragmented as it manoeuvred along the congested aisles between the stalls. The crowd closed silently around it like water round the hull of a passing ship.
The rider watched this disintegration passively then, making a small hand signal to the stallholder, he swung his foot from the stirrup and aimed a seemingly vicious kick at the man’s head. The man, however, caught the extended foot easily and with a great heave pushed the Mathidrin out of his saddle.
Yatsu affected a conspicuous attempt to retain his seat before slithering from sight down the far side of his horse with a loud cry. A roar went up from the crowd around him.
The leader of the foot patrol turned to urge his men forward, only to find them scattered and isolated. He started to shout angrily but, even as he did so, hands seized him and the roar of the crowd crashed over him like a great tidal wave.
At the far corner of the square, Yatsu turned briefly to check that the attack on the Mathidrin patrol was well under way then, with a quick signal of thanks to the stallholder and the now silent crowd around him, he and his men slipped quietly away. They had other diversions to set in train that day.
Chapter 33
Since his journey to the Gretmearc, Hawklan had ceased to be surprised by his knowledge of places that should have been strange to him. It was intriguing, as were many other aspects of his life, but with so much mystery surrounding him he knew that nothing was to be gained from arbitrary questioning. His approach was prag-matic. The knowledge was there and it was indisputably useful, and that would have to suffice for the time being.
However, as he travelled across Fyorlund with his Mathidrin escort, an uneasiness began to seep into that very knowledge-an uneasiness that deepened pro-foundly as they neared Vakloss.
The City seeped into view as they travelled through Fyorlund’s relatively flat and fertile central plain. At first it was exposed and hidden alternately by minor features in the landscape but, as they drew nearer, it began to dominate the surrounding countryside.
It was built on a great isolated hill and its towers and high buildings, culminating in the towering edifice of the Palace at its central and highest point, topped it like a many-pointed crown. Hawklan realized that he knew the country, but not the City. But even his knowledge of the country was… dark… fearful?
The Palace was no Anderras Darion, but it soared majestically above the City’s lesser buildings, although these also were of no mean worth: Vakloss had been built by craftsmen of great skill. It seemed to Hawklan, however, that the splendour was inappropriate. This place troubled him. It was a focus for something dark inside him.
‘You’ve no cities as fine as this in Orthlund, I’ll wa-ger,’ said the Mathidrin Captain, riding to his side. Hawklan started out of his reverie and stared about foolishly for a moment. The Captain’s tone had an unpleasant edge and reflected his continuing uncer-tainty about Hawklan, but Hawklan ignored the inflection and took the comment as if it had been a pleasantry.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘we’ve no cities in Orthlund. Only villages. I’ve never seen a city before. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live in one. It seems to be rather a strange idea, but I suppose if you’ve a great many people in your land, then the ways in which you live together will inevitably be different from ours.’ The Captain smiled uncertainly. Hawklan’s constant willingness to accede to his boastful assertions about Fyorlund unsettled him, left him off balance. There was nothing there for him to argue about or defend. He had the feeling that he was both winning and losing at the same time.
‘I find it strange to imagine a country that’s only farms, countryside and villages,’ he said weakly.
Hawklan smiled. ‘That probably means we’re both victims of our histories,’ he said. ‘Tell me, how old is Vakloss?’
The Captain frowned. This man asked the strangest questions. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he replied. ‘It’s always been there.’
‘Always?’ said Hawklan, raising his eyebrows hu-morously and fixing the Captain with his green-eyed stare. The man avoided the gaze by looking back and rebuking one of his men for some non-existent offence.
‘Always?’ repeated Hawklan, turning to the front again.
The Captain looked embarrassed. This man had an unnerving way of drawing confidences from people. ‘Learning’s not encouraged in the Mathidrin,’ he said brusquely. ‘And too close an interest in the past would be viewed very suspiciously. We’re told it’s just been one long tale of abuse of the people by the Lords and the Geadrol, and treachery against the Kings. It’s our job to put it right, not debate it.’
Hawklan raised a placatory hand. ‘Just an innocent question, Captain,’ he said. ‘It looks such a splendid sight I was naturally interested in who would build such a place.’
Mollified, the Captain volunteered, ‘When I was a kid, they used to say it was built after the First Coming. I suppose that just means it’s very old and no one really knows.’
Hawklan nodded. ‘It’s certainly very old, but… ’ his voice tailed off. A dark swirling and roaring surged round him and he heard a distant, failing, trumpet call. A sense of horror overwhelmed him and he felt a cry of unbearable despair forming inside him.
‘But?’ The Captain’s voice brought him back to the day’s sunshine.
Hawklan shook his head apologetically. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
Reining his horse back discreetly, the Captain fell behind Hawklan slightly, so that he could study him again.
Tall and straight, Hawklan rode his splendid black horse with an ease that the Captain had only seen before in Queen Sylvriss. He was relaxed and easy in everything he did and almost always good-humoured and acquies-cent. But, nevertheless, he gave the impression of being very much his own man; unassailable. And, deep inside, the Captain sensed that to provoke him to anger-no, that somehow, would be unlikely-but to provoke him to violence, would be to risk a very swift death. That bow. That sword. Those damned green eyes. The man gave him the creeps. It came to him abruptly that he had similar feelings when near the Lord Dan-Tor. He would be glad when he was back in the City. Ambition or no, people like that were best avoided.
The Captain consoled himself with his assessment of Isloman. Big, powerful, easily a match for several men. Superficially affable, but with his eyes ever watchful and unable to hide their suspicion. Easier to provoke than his companion if need arose, Isloman was more… normal. That was it. He was more normal than Hawklan.
On the whole, he thought, he’d done the right thing giving them an escort and coming along himself. He couldn’t see how any reproach could be levelled at him for that. If it transpired they were unimportant then he’d been sensibly cautious, while if they were impor-tant then his action would be duly noted.
Certainty, however, continued to elude him, and he eased his horse forward to come by Hawklan’s side again. On reflection, he thought, the man’s not quite like Dan-Tor. He’d helped two of the horses that went lame, and very effectively, too. And he’d pitched in with the work in their overnight camps. Then, of course, he’s bound to behave like that if he’s looking to make a favourable impression.
‘What’s that smoke, Captain?’ Hawklan’s voice broke into his reverie. Screwing up his eyes against the summer glare, he followed Hawklan’s extended arm. As if aspiring to join the soaring towers and spires of Vakloss, a single column of dense black smoke was rising from the City.