Leetha pondered this and could see Blut’s point. Such visions were peculiar to say the least, and perhaps a sign that the Emperor might be less than sane.
‘He will tell you, my dear, that I am also, sometimes, sick. I vomit as does Slew and he believes, rightly I think, it is the gem.’
‘He has said as much already, Majesty.’
‘Has he now?’
Blut stayed expressionless.
‘Does he know, by the by, that to say the Emperor is insane is treasonable?’
Blut answered the question himself to remind them he was there.
‘I do and I should. I drafted that legislation myself.’
‘You see, Blut always speaks the truth. If he did not I would have to have him killed. But as he does, I don’t. Truth well told is a very powerful thing. Encourage it. Now I must go.’
Smiling still, the Emperor went and left them to it.
‘And another thing, Lady,’ whispered Blut, ‘my Lord sits topper-most with Witold Slew your son, the leather pouch in his hand, and feeds him glimpses of the light of the gem of Summer as if it was an opiate.’
‘What else?’
‘He wishes to destroy Brum now he knows it has thrown out the Fyrd.’
‘That is insane,’ she said.
‘He has ordered General Quatremayne to assemble a force of Fyrd to cross the North Sea and attack Brum.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
‘Anything else?’
Blut hesitated because there was, but how to broach it?
‘It is nothing.’
‘Let me judge that.’
‘The day he submitted to the gem’s power and light and was restored, he expressed a fear, irrational I think.’
‘I do not recall.’
‘He was afraid the long-dead ã Faroün, his mentor when he was a boy, would somehow reappear . . .’
Her eyes went cold.
‘Well, my Lady, of late he has woken with that name upon his lips – not at night but when he sleeps in the day. He trembles and whispers that name.’
She raised her hand.
‘It is better not to speak it in his presence, Blut. It . . . haunts him still.’
‘What does?’
‘What happened to ã Faroün.’
‘What did happen? If it affects my Lord I should know.’
‘It was as simple and stark as it was horrible. The Emperor had to witness the execution of his beloved mentor.’
‘Why?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘You cannot or prefer not?’
‘The latter. He was falsely accused of arcane practice with my Lord. You say he has spoken that name?’
‘Yes . . . but arcane practice? What is that?’
Lady Leetha did not answer. Instead she said, ‘It is a pity you did not tell me this before. I might have soothed him. There is ill-magick in that name. It conjures up bad things, like a spell that brings forth evil.’
‘When was this, my Lady?’
‘When he was in his thirties and his mentor in his hundreds, his longevity being due of course to his possession of the gem. He was burnt.’
‘Burnt?’
‘Alive.’
‘His father forced the Emperor to light the flame. That act, those screams, haunt him still. Hence his nightmares and fear of fire. The gem, the very thing that gives him life, reminds him of that terrible death . . . I am sorry he has such worries now. It augurs ill. That name is not good luck.’
Blut, absorbed, suddenly realized the time.
‘Forgive me, I am late . . .’
‘For what, Blut?’
‘A meeting with the finest chef in the Hyddenworld.’
‘Who made that claim?’
‘He himself,’ said Blut without a smile, ‘but others say the same.’
Leetha laughed.
‘You mean the celebrated Parlance, former personal chef to Lord Festoon, High Ealdor of Brum, now a runner of restaurants, a caterer extraordinaire and, in his way, even a healer?’
‘The same. I have hired him to create the banquet at the coming celebration of the gems. He is an irritating fellow who affects to speak French but is Brummie born and bred. However, he can cook. As for Brum . . . it has a delightfully self-important High Ealdor who has no power, and a very ordinary Marshal, Igor Brunte, who has real control . . . and the bilgesnipe of that city are treated with respect. Extraordinary. Were I the Emperor I would investigate the place.’
Leetha stood, turned, her perfume wafting in the air, her dress swinging.
‘Perhaps you ought to be,’ she said softly.
‘I think not, my Lady.’
Blut hurried off to meet the chef.
‘My Lord,’ he said two hours later, ‘my apologies for being late.’
In fact this was not quite the truth.
He had been late, Parlance was hard to shake off, but when he arrived to see the Emperor as arranged he was asleep in a chair, a blanket to his chin despite the Summer warmth. He had therefore sat and waited until his Lord, his rest unsettled, tears flowing from a dream, woke up.
So why Blut apologized he did not know.
‘What were you doing that made you late?’
‘Talking to a chef.’
‘Ah, excellent. For the banquet? Talk me through the arrangements.’
Blut sighed, shook his head, pursed his lips and looked disapproving. He produced a file.
‘If you would glance at this, Lord,’ he said grudgingly, ‘it outlines the arrangements that will make it possible for the maximum number of people to see the gems safely, the Hall not being big enough.’
Sinistral read the document in silence.
When he had finished he said, ‘I had a dream just now. In fact, I wept.’
‘Yes,’ said Blut, non-committally.
‘Did you hear that shimmer of a change in the Earth’s song? Just now, a moment ago, I think. Or was I asleep again?’
‘You have been in and out of sleep today, Lord, or as I prefer, in and out of waking. I have heard many sounds while I have been sitting here but their interpretation escapes me as yet. They are very beautiful.’
‘They are, Blut. People should take more time to listen to the Earth.’
He leaned forward confidentially.
‘I was weeping in my sleep for you, I think.’
‘Me, my Lord?’
Blut’s surprise was real.
‘For you. That shimmer I felt was a warning sign that change is on the way. In a sense, change is always on the way, since nothing stands still in the Universe. There is no stasis and people would be happier if they accepted that fact.’
‘We have often said as much, but—’
‘We?’
‘Forgive me. My wife and I. That nothing lasts for ever, least of all such shifting states as happiness and unhappiness.’
‘You are a philosopher, Niklas.’
Blut shook his head.
‘No, I have simply listened and remembered the things you have said or written in the past. It is a privilege—’
Sinistral raised his hand.
‘Please, Blut, do not be the courtier, it does not suit you.’
‘But it is a privilege knowing you, my Lord. It is a training, Lord.’
‘For what?’
The Emperor’s eyes were sharp, not mad at all.
‘For . . . life, Lord, nothing more.’
‘Well, well . . . that shimmer was a warning; my tears preceded it, sensing its coming. Our unconscious worlds are as big as the Universe because they are the Universe. I wept because of the command I must now give you – but I fear nothing less will do.’
‘Lord?’
‘Send away your family to a place of safety.’
Blut stayed silent.
‘You do not seem surprised or even alarmed. It is a command.’
‘Then I shall, Lord.’
‘Now, the celebration . . . it is imminent?’
&
nbsp; ‘In two days’ time.’
‘Brief me.’
The idea had started with a desire to have a public celebration of the Emperor’s ‘recovery’ at which various medals and awards might be presented to the great and the good in recognition of their services to the Empire over the two decades of his sleep.
Blut had seen at once that such an event would be an organizational, political and diplomatic nightmare, since everyone who was anyone would feel slighted if they were not invited to attend. That was bad enough, but manageable.
But when Witold Slew arrived with the gem of Spring the Emperor added a finale – a public display of the two gems he now possessed, together.
‘My Lord, if you do that then the ordinary people will want to come as well . . .’
‘And why not? Are not the ordinary people, as you put it, the very stuff and heart of the Empire?’
‘They are, of course, but the Great Hall can only accommodate so many . . . and many have a rightful claim to be there, starting with the courtiers. No matter, we have put in place measures to stop most of the invited guests even attending . . .’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘They have invitations, but by the time they have been processed the event will be over. They have the honour of being invited; we have the pleasure of not entertaining them. They will blame the administration, Lord.’
‘You mean you.’
‘I mean the person I have put in charge. You will need to punish him.’
‘Do I know him?’
‘Better that you don’t know his name . . . It is hard to shake the hand of a courtier you are going to execute.’
‘As a matter of fact it isn’t. I have often done it but that was before your time. But you’re right; I do not need to know his name. Meanwhile, have you seen my new robes? They are magnificent.’
‘No, my Lord, I have had one or two other matters to attend to, like security, to stop a revolution; catering, to feed four thousand guests; procurement, to ensure a supply of eight thousand flagons of mead and—’
‘Ah! You have not time to see my robes?’
‘And then there is the matter of . . . of . . .’
For the first time in eighteen years Blut felt himself losing control.
‘Sit down, Blut. You can forget my robes, they will be all right. What matter is it that worries you so much?’
Blut wiped his brow and asked the Emperor’s forgiveness for his momentary lapse. ‘It is of no real consequence I suppose, but some things drive one beyond breaking point.’
Sinistral was astonished. He had assumed that Blut was unbreakable.
‘Enlighten me.’
‘It is the chef for the banquet that you ordered us to have.’
‘The chef?’
‘You said, “Find the best one in the Empire” and unhappily I did.’
‘You would. Did he come from the spicelands of Asia, perhaps? Or the succulence of the Arabian littoral? Or is he an expert in the wholesome fare, robust and good, of Americky and the Antipodes?’
‘No, my Lord, he comes from Brum, city of your birth.’
The Emperor was pleasantly surprised.
‘I don’t think of Brum as being the home of good food, Blut. Fatty chips, mushy peas, overcooked meat and flatulent fish and cakes so heavy that they numb the stomach and slow the mind. Or have things changed?’
‘One chef has changed them, Lord. A genius of the kitchen arts, a magician of the meat, a star with the sauce, who creates heaven with herbs – I quote his literature about himself.’
‘Have I heard of him?’
‘I doubt it, my Lord; he emerged into the light of day while you were asleep.’
‘His name?’
‘Parlance, my Lord. He was the High Ealdor Lord Festoon’s chef. Since then he works for the highest bidder, who this week is yourself.’
‘And?’
‘He is temperamental and demanding.’
‘Give him what he wants and praise him.’
‘He wants praise from you, not me.’
‘Then tell this Parlance that if his food pleases me, his Emperor, I shall personally present him to the Court on the night of the presentation of the gems.’
‘Thank you, Emperor. Now . . .’
‘My robes?’
‘Later, perhaps . . . I have a meeting with the generals to discuss security.’
‘Is there an issue?’
‘For me, yes. They are more relaxed.’
‘You should get your family out of here, Blut, or have I already mentioned that?’
Blut nodded and wiped his spectacles. ‘You have.’
‘Blut?’
‘Lord?’
‘I think my hair is falling out.’
‘Lord . . .’
‘Blut . . . I am terrified and don’t know what to do.’ He wept.
‘Shall I fetch my Lady, Lord?’
He shook his head as Blut wiped his tears.
‘No, fetch Witold Slew, I have a new task for him.’
‘May I ask what it is? Is it something I might better do? He is a fighter, not an administrator.’
‘It is for a fight I need him.’
‘Against whom?’
‘My greatest enemy.’
‘My Lord,’ began Blut, much alarmed, ‘name him and I shall have him arraigned.’
‘I mean myself,’ whispered Sinistral.
38
ANCESTOR
The last time Jack passed through a door in the Chamber of Seasons he ended up in the place he needed to be.
This time, as the door of Summer shut-to behind them and the world whirled for a few moments before coming clear again, he was not so sure.
He had expected to arrive somewhere that would take him closer to their destination, which was Bochum in Germany. Maybe on a green road outside Brum heading towards the East Coast; or on the coast itself at any of the hydden ports from where they might make passage over the North Sea; or, if they were really lucky and the Mirror-of-All, which he guessed held the secrets of the doors, decided to be benign they might arrive on the further shore.
As it was they found themselves huddled in a circle on a patch of grass at night, like a small tribe of hunters in prehistoric times, but in what looked, smelt and sounded like a tiny island of wasteland in a vast urban human jungle.
‘We stay just as we are,’ said Jack at once, for at least where they were they felt safe and protected, as if they had been put there for a reason and that reason had to do with the ground itself.
He alone stood up. His stave felt alive and good in his hand, as if it approved of where they were.
There was little light close by, and even standing up Jack did not attract any. But the sky above his head was lurid with ambient city glow, and whichever way he looked there was no end to the lights of roads large and small, of tower blocks and modern offices, chimneys of industry, high-speed trains, a wide canal and, overhead, the lights of aeroplanes here, there and everywhere.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘this is a no-man’s-land between a canal and river and we are not overlooked. For now we’re safe.’
As well as the endless stretching lights and buildings there was a constant hum of fast traffic, the occasional clackety race of a speeding train, and once at least the sudden shrill hoot of a ship’s klaxon from the larger of the two canals.
When Jack had passed through the door of Spring with Katherine, Festoon and his chef Parlance, they found themselves on Waseley Hill, a few miles from Festoon’s residence. This did not feel like Brum or even Englalond.
‘No point in moving until we’ve worked out where we are,’ said Jack. ‘Any ideas, anyone?’
The only one of their party who did not shake his head was Feld.
‘Something’s familiar about the place,’ he said.
‘And something else,’ said Jack. ‘Although we’re in the middle of the largest city I’ve ever known, this particular spot has a good feel to it. Almost
as if our kind has been here before.’
Their eyes had adjusted to the night and Barklice said, ‘I’ll just go and . . .’
Jack nodded to the others to let him go. He knew no hydden as good as Barklice at working out where he was and what direction he should take.
They watched as he walked slowly towards a stone of some kind across the grass.
He reached it, circled it, went close and peered at it, touched it and came back.
‘Human. It’s got writing on it, but it’s not in any language that I know. Stort, you’re the linguist, over to you.’
‘Feld, go with him. Stort’s in the habit of getting lost.’
But Jack was not too worried about that; there was an air of rightness about the place, as if here and no other was where they were meant to start their quest from.
It looked like the Mirror-of-All had, in its wisdom and knowing the nature of their quest, set them down where they needed to be.
When Stort reached the stone he went closer than Barklice had done, Feld at his side.
‘By the Mirror,’ he cried after only a short examination, ‘we’re not in Englalond but in Germany.’
Feld laughed with relief.
‘We are not just in Germany, Stort, we are in the Rhineland, and in a very, very special part of it. A part I happen to know . . .’
‘What’s written on the stone?’
‘I shall read it,’ said Feld. ‘It is a sign put up by humans . . . Hier wurde 1963 bei Baggerarbeiten im Rhein-Herne-Kanal ein Neandertalerrastplatz (180,000 Jahre alt) entdeckt . . .’
Feld fell silent, Stort stood still.
‘What’s it mean?’ asked Barklice in a low voice.
The two came back.
‘What it means,’ said Stort, ‘is that the ground we now sit on marks a place of great antiquity and holiness. It’s a burial ground.’
‘Also, we are only a few miles from the entrance to the hydden city of Bochum,’ said Feld, ‘and I am a fool for not recognizing at once where we are, since I was brought to this very spot as a child.’
‘I heard the word “Neandertal” in what you read out,’ said Jack quietly. ‘Were they not the first of our kind?’
His stave shimmered, its carvings crackling with blue light.