‘I don’t know, Majesty,’ Dilrap replied. ‘But it wouldn’t matter if I did. I don’t think any of us will be able to do anything now.’
‘What’s happened?’ she said in a mixture of fear and concern.
‘Majesty,’ replied Dilrap, ‘Dan-Tor’s declared him-self Ffyrst.’
The news made no impression on Sylvriss. ‘My fa-ther’s title is Ffyrst,’ she said. ‘What’s significant about that?’
‘Majesty,’ said Dilrap, ‘the position of Ffyrst in Fyor-lund is very different from that in Riddin. It’s a legacy from the distant past. In times of grave national danger the Geadrol would appoint someone as Ffyrst to govern the country until the danger was past. Usually it was the King, and he would select a small group of senior Lords as advisers. But it was a temporary appointment and was constantly reviewed by the Geadrol.’
‘And Dan-Tor has appointed himself to this posi-tion, using the riots as an excuse?’ said Sylvriss.
‘I’m afraid so, Majesty,’ said Dilrap. ‘He’s using the Law to destroy the Law. The Geadrol is suspended. The Lords are in disarray, divided by conflicting loyalties and confused by rumour. The Mathidrin hold the streets in Vakloss and many other villages and towns. He has a sufficient veneer of legality in the title to satisfy many ordinary people… ’ He waved his hands in angry despair.
‘What of you then?’ Sylvriss asked.
‘I was of use to him only for dealing with the minu-tiae of the Law, Majesty. His word’s the Law now. He needs no guide there. All my tangling and twisting has counted for nothing in the end. The Goraidin’s bold stroke cut through them all. And the Law. And probably my neck.’ The comment sounded oddly flat, without bitterness or reproach.
Sylvriss looked away from him. ‘At least the Lords are free,’ she said eventually. ‘Dan-Tor may not be the gainer after all. He’s only changed the name of what he already had.’
Though what she said was true, she could not sound convinced. Dan-Tor’s power would undoubtedly grow the faster for being uncluttered by the trappings of the Law, and the direction of his achievements boded ill not only for the Honoured Secretary but for herself and the King if unchecked. Dilrap looked at her. ‘How is the King’s health, Majesty?’ he asked unexpectedly.
Ruthlessly she cut his last thread. ‘Better, Dilrap, but he’s still weak. We can look to no help from him, I’m afraid.’
In desperation he clutched again. ‘Majesty. I’m ill-fitted for the role Fate’s cast me in, but the man’s destroyed everything I valued, and will eventually destroy everything… everything I love.’ He pulled an ornate dagger from the folds of his robe. ‘For a little while I should still be able to get close to him. Physically close. One swift stroke and it would be done with.’
Sylvriss reached forward and took his wrists gently. She remembered vividly her own futile attempt to stab Yatsu and the contemptuous ease with which she had been disarmed and almost killed for her pains. And she was Muster-trained.
‘No, Dilrap,’ she said. ‘That would be a useless ges-ture. You’d die achieving nothing. You and I have no choices now. I shall continue to nurse my husband. Playing the foolish stable girl until times swing our way. Your task is harder. You’ve been useful to him of late and his very contempt for you may be your saving. You must become his lackey. Law or no Law, he’ll need men to administer his… stewardship. You’ve learned to dissemble. Continue. Make yourself of value to this… new order. For your sake, and all our sakes, Dilrap, allow no other underling to interpose himself between you and this demon.’
Then slowly, ‘As you love me, Dilrap, be as ruthless as he. No one must stand in your way. Our nearness to him is our only protection, maybe even Fyorlund’s only protection.’
When Dilrap had left, Sylvriss went over to the win-dow and, drawing back the tapestried curtain, looked out into the night sky. It was ablaze with stars. Beautiful, but cold and distant. A spartan solace for her. She stood there for a long time.
Chapter 41
The Lord Evison’s estate was in the north of Fyorlund, its borders disappearing vaguely into the mountains that lay between Fyorlund and Narsindal.
Occasionally, Mandroc raiding parties would ven-ture down into the bleak northerly stretches of the estate to steal cattle and sheep. It was a perennial problem for most of the northern Lords but not usually a serious one as the parties tended to be small and disorganized and would invariably scatter as soon as the villagers started unearthing their old Threshold Swords and spears. On the rare occasions that raids became too frequent or the parties too large, the High Guards would be sent to deal with them. However, there being no benefit to be gained from capturing or killing Mandrocs, they were normally allowed to escape back into the mountains.
Then, abruptly, the pattern changed. The raids grew in intensity. The Mandrocs became more persistent and even started to stand their ground and fight.
Following a bitter year in which both villagers and High Guards were killed, Lord Evison requested permission from the King to extend his High Guard in order to patrol his northern border more effectively.
Such a request was considered to be only a courtesy which the King could not reasonably refuse, but the King had refused it. Like most of the northern Lords, Evison was a traditionalist in the mould of Eldric, though somewhat more blunt. In his immediate anger, therefore, his reply to the King’s refusal was less than diplomatic. The King, in turn, cited some ancient statute and declared Evison a rebel, along with several other Lords who had made the same request.
This caused some stir but, knowing of the King’s illness, the offending Lords let the matter lie in the fairly certain knowledge that they would eventually be able to sort it out in the Geadrol. No harm would come of it. In the meantime, they had a more pressing problem to deal with that required men, so they levied their full High Guards and increased the number of reserves.
Despite the extra patrols, however, the raiding par-ties continued with increasing frequency and violence, and reluctantly Evison decided that he must mount a major operation against the Mandrocs, pursuing them back into the mountains so that he could find and perhaps even treat with their leaders or, if necessary, destroy their bases. Accordingly, he consolidated his High Guards and, on a bright summer day, set forth at the head of several thousand men to resolve the problem once and for all.
Commander Ordan, Lord Evison’s Second-in-Command, walked fitfully up and down the battlements of his Lord’s castle. His frustration at being ordered to remain behind in charge of the castle had gradually been displaced by concern. It had been too long since any message had come back from the troop. The last one had said they were entering the mountains following the trail of a large raiding party, but had contacted no Mandrocs so far. Since then, silence.
‘Riders!’
The look-out’s cry cut into his dark reverie like a ray of sunlight. Jumping up on to the wall, he looked northwards, following the look-out’s pointing hand. He felt a great relief as he saw the distant riders approach-ing and there was some cheering from others who had been keeping informal watch on the battlements.
Within minutes, however, all elation was gone, and Ordan found himself running wide-eyed and alarmed out of the main gate to greet his Lord. Bloodied by battle, and fouled with a desperate journey, Lord Evison slithered from his mount only seconds before it collapsed, foaming and steaming. The riders following him were in no better condition.
Urgently shouting orders for the care of the return-ing men and beasts, Ordan bent forward and swung his Lord’s arm around his shoulder for support.
‘My Lord,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
The old man did not answer but leaned heavily on his Second-in-Command. ‘Who’ll believe us?’ he said after a moment.