Hawklan looked into the old man’s face. Through the scars of his recent captivity he could read a splendid mixture of compassion and wisdom though they were only barely containing an almost youthful impatience.
‘Lord Eldric,’ he said. ‘I’m Hawklan. A healer from Pedhavin in Orthlund.’ Eldric began a gesture of rebuttal, but Hawklan continued without pause. ‘Events over the last few months have shown me that that’s not all I am, but little else. I’ve more questions about myself than you have, Lord. When I know who I am, I’ll tell you. But for now, the question can’t be answered. Certainly not by me nor any I’ve met, including your Lord Dan-Tor.’
Eldric looked at him, his eyes narrow. ‘Then I must judge you by your deeds,’ he said.
Hawklan sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘If you must judge, then my deeds will suffice as evidence, and I’ll abide by your verdict,’ he said.
Eldric raised his hands and lowered his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It was an ill-chosen word. I’m already in your debt for your help to Lord Arinndier and Dacu. How can I repay you?’
‘There’s no question of payment, Lord Eldric,’ Hawklan said. ‘We’re all under siege here, and in desperate straits, I imagine, for all the comfort of our immediate surroundings. Isloman and I came to Fyorlund to find out what was happening here and to seek out this Dan-Tor. That’s still our aim. You and the others will be looking to leave the City as soon as possible, I presume, to flee from him, for your own sakes and for the sake of these people sheltering us.’ Eldric nodded and Hawklan leaned forward. ‘Dan-Tor’s machinations are common to us both. The greatest service we can do one another, therefore, is to share our knowledge, then we can define our intentions and plan our actions. As a military man I think you might say-intelligence, strategy and tactics.’
Eldric nodded again. ‘Indeed, healer,’ he said, with a soft irony. ‘Indeed.’
Through the day, Dan-Tor also gathered in his intelli-gence, sitting still and silent at the centre of the web his Mathidrin were weaving over the City. Occasionally he would walk over to the window and stare out at the slender strand of smoke still rising in the distance. Like incense from a votive offering, he thought.
A light breeze had risen with the sun, bending and dispersing the column, and the jaundiced haze of the dawn was gradually being swept aside by air that brought with it the fresh scents of the fertile plains that surrounded the City. The sight was much less to his taste, but little could alloy his satisfaction at what had been achieved. On the whole, it was substantial.
True, the Lords had been released; that was not good, but had presumably been the reason for the start of the disturbance. Two of his workshops had been destroyed; that was unfortunate. Several Mathidrin had been killed; that was of little concern. And several citizens had been killed; that was of even less concern. But the greatest gain came from his being able to lay the blame for all the havoc squarely at the feet of the four Lords, and their more active supporters, even though he sensed Hawklan was the true originator. ‘Didn’t I tell you? There’s treachery all around us,’ he could say. ‘Look what these people have wrought with their greed and ambition. And these are our own kind. What then can we expect from the Orthlundyn?’
On the pretext of rooting out the traitor Lords and their helpers, he could increase the power of his Mathidrin, and with the terror that they would spread he could gradually dispense with the irritating forms of law behind which he was still obliged to shelter.
Idly his long forefinger pushed a pen along the thick book lying on the desk in front of him. For a while it overhung the edge of the book, then, at his next touch, it tilted down on to the desk top. The balance swings my way, he thought. Suddenly and with little effort, because of what has gone before. And it will not swing back. Fyorlund will go ever downwards under the weight of my Master’s heel. A substantial achievement indeed.
Nevertheless, Hawklan and the Lords weighed too heavily in this balance. At liberty, they could dispute this version of events, could rouse many of the people, particularly away from the City, where the Mathidrin had less influence. They could cause endless trouble.
And Hawklan? Still an enigma. It must be he who started this, but why? And how?
His mind went back to the green at Pedhavin. What demon had made him think he could sell his corruption to the Orthlundyn, of all people? That remnant of the ancient race. He should have followed his original intention and moved quietly through Orthlund and out into a world that was ripe for him. But he had had to stop. Had to try their mettle. And what demon had made him play the clown at the foot of that accursed Castle, and brought him face to face with the man who might house the greatest of all enemies? But, above all, what demon had prompted him to try to enslave the man without His aid?
Was it that old buffoon, chance? Was it some dark test by his Master? Was it even some plot by Ethriss himself? If the devil were awake, might not he too have the infinite patience and cunning of Him? Searching and learning in his mortal frame, not wasting his power on lesser fry, until he knew the strength of his long-silent enemy. The thought was as sharp and clear as the black bird that had soared through the morning murk and it unsettled Dan-Tor profoundly. A powerful servant to an infinitely cruel and subtle master, he knew he was. But a puppet? One whose strings could be seen and pulled by those who had the sight, to make him jerk and twist unaware of their will? He glanced uneasily from side to side as if listening for distant and mocking laughter.
Then, rolling in the wake of these doubts came the most terrible of all. That even the deeds of Ethriss and Him might be determined by a force beyond them all.
With a grim effort, he shook the convoluting thoughts from his mind. None have the vision for that, he thought. You seek that which must be forever from you. Deal with matters of immediate moment. You’ll gain scant reward for doing anything else. Hawklan must be in the City. The Lords could still be. They must be found and taken before the balance of his progress did indeed slip away from him.
He walked over to the door and stepped into a small ante-room. An immaculate Mathidrin officer stood smartly to attention as he entered. ‘Lord?’ he said.
‘Have Commander Urssain join me on the north battlements immediately he returns.’
As the day progressed, an ordinary upstairs room in an ordinary Vakloss house saw Hawklan’s suggestion put into practice, as the Lords and their rescuers and finally Hawklan himself told their respective tales.
The room was lit only by such daylight as could percolate through the thin curtains that had been left drawn since the house awoke. The movement of people in an upstairs room might possibly attract the attention of the patrolling Mathidrin, but torchlight shining through curtains certainly would.
Eldric spoke for the Lords. His telling was simple, precise, and short, if a little formal. Hawklan noted some of the Goraidin winking at one another as he rose and began as though he were in the Geadrol. He told of their arrest and imprisonment and of their unexpected and tenuous link with the Queen, but he made no observations on the motivation of the King or Dan-Tor.
Yatsu’s telling, however, was longer and more an-guished.
The patterned curtains threw uneven shadows across his face like an imprisoning mask. He told of his decision to mobilize his old Goraidin companions when he read of the disbanding of the High Guards. ‘Without the Geadrol, everything is mist and fog. The course of the country’s affairs can’t be seen, nor who steers it. Appeals by the other Lords for your release or trial were met with endless and wilful prevarication. The Mathidrin ignored and abused both the Law and the people. I saw no alternative but to attempt to release you so that some light could be shone into the gloom.’