‘I’m so happy that we could resolve this little problem without unpleasantness,’ Stragen drawled. ‘Now why don’t we all go inside so you can introduce us to Djukta?’
The tavern had a low ceiling and the floor was covered with mouldy straw. It was lit by a few crude lamps that burned melted tallow.
Djukta was by far the hairiest man Sparhawk had ever seen. His arms and hands seemed to be covered with curly black fur. Great wads of hair protruded from the neck of his tunic; his ears and nostrils looked like bird’s nests; and his beard began just under his lower eyelids. ‘What’s this?’ he demanded, his voice issuing from somewhere behind his shaggy rug of a face.
‘They made us let them come inside, Djukta,’ one of the men from the doorway whined, pointing at Stragen’s rapier.
Djukta’s piggish eyes narrowed dangerously.
‘Don’t be tiresome,’ Stragen told him, ‘and pay attention. I’ve given you the recognition signal twice already, and you didn’t even notice.’
‘I noticed, but coming in here with a sword in your hand isn’t the best way to get things off to a good start.’
‘We were a little pressed for time. I think we’re being followed.’ Stragen sheathed his rapier.
‘You’re not from around here, are you?’
‘No. We’re from Eosia.’
‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘That was sort of the idea. Things were getting unhealthy back there.’
‘What line are you in?’
‘We’re vagabonds at heart, so we were seeking fame and fortune on the highways and byways of Pelosia. A high-ranking churchman suddenly fell ill and died while we were talking business with him, and the Church Knights decided to investigate the causes of his illness. My friends and I decided to find fresh scenery to look at right about then.’
‘Are those Church Knights really as bad as they say?’
‘Worse, probably. The three of us are all that’s left of a band of thirty.’
‘Are you planning to go into business around here?’
‘We haven’t decided yet. We thought we’d look things over first – and make sure that the knights aren’t still following us.’
‘Do you feel like telling us your names?’
‘Not particularly. We’re not sure we’re going to stay, and there’s not much point in making up new names if we’re not going to settle down.’
Djukta laughed. ‘If you aren’t sure you’re going into business, what’s the reason for this visit?’
‘Courtesy, for the most part. It’s terribly impolite not to pay a call on one’s colleagues when one’s passing through a town, and we thought it might save a bit of time if you could spare a few minutes to give us a rundown on local practices in the field of law-enforcement.’
‘I’ve never been to Eosia, but I’d imagine that things like that are fairly standard. Highwaymen aren’t held in high regard.’
‘We’re so misunderstood,’ Stragen sighed. ‘They have the usual sheriffs and the like, I suppose?’
‘There are sheriffs right enough,’ Djukta said, ‘but they don’t go out into the countryside very often in this part of Astel. The nobles out there more or less police their own estates. The sheriffs are usually involved in collecting taxes, and they aren’t all that welcome when they ride out of town.’
‘That’s useful. All we’d really have to deal with would be poorly-trained serfs who fare better at catching chicken-thieves than at dealing with serious people. Is that more or less the way it is?’
Djukta nodded. ‘The good part is that these serfsheriffs won’t go past the borders of their own estate.’
‘That’s a highwayman’s dream,’ Stragen grinned.
‘Not entirely,’ Djukta disagreed. ‘It’s not a good idea to make too much noise out there. The local sheriff wouldn’t chase you, but he would send word to the Atan garrison up in Canae. A man can’t run far enough or fast enough to get away from the Atans, and nobody’s ever taught them how to take prisoners.’
‘That could be a drawback,’ Stragen conceded. ‘Is there anything else we should know about?’
‘Did you ever hear of Ayachin?’
‘I can’t say that I have.’
‘That could get you into all kinds of trouble.’
‘Who is he?’
Djukta turned his head. ‘Akros,’ he called, ‘come here and tell our colleagues here about Ayachin.’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I’m not too well-versed in ancient history,’ he explained. ‘Akros used to be a teacher before he got caught stealing from his employer. He may not be too coherent. He has a little problem with drink.’
Akros was a shabby-looking fellow with bloodshot eyes and a five-day growth of beard. ‘What was it you wanted, Djukta?’ he asked, swaying on his feet.
‘Sort through what’s left of your brain and tell our friends here what you can remember about Ayachin.’
The drunken pedagogue smiled, his bleary eyes coming alight. He slid into a chair and took a drink from his tankard. ‘I’m only a little drunk,’ he said, his speech slurred.
‘That’s true,’ Djukta told Stragen. ‘When he’s really drunk, he can’t even talk.’
‘How much do you gentlemen know of the history of Astel?’ Akros asked them.
‘Not too much,’ Stragen admitted.
‘I’ll touch the high spots then.’ Akros leaned back in his chair. ‘It was in the ninth century that one of the Archprelates in Chyrellos decided that the Elene faith ought to be re-united – under his domination, naturally.’
‘Naturally,’ Stragen smiled. ‘It always seems to get down to that, doesn’t it?’
Akros rubbed at his face. ‘I’m a little shaky on this, so I might leave some things out. This was before the founding of the Church Knights, so this Archprelate forced the Kings of Eosia to provide him with armies, and they marched through Zemoch. That was before Otha was born, so Zemoch wasn’t much of a barrier. The Archprelate was interested in religious unity, but the noblemen in his army were more interested in conquest. They ravaged the kingdom of Astel until Ayachin came.’
Talen leaned forward, his eyes bright. It was the boy’s one weakness. A good story could paralyse him.
Akros took another drink. ‘There are all sorts of conflicting stories about who Ayachin really was,’ he continued. ‘Some say he was a prince, some that he was a baron, and there are even those who say he was only a serf. Anyway, whoever he was, he was a fervent patriot. He roused such noblemen as hadn’t yet gone over to the invaders, and then he did something no one had ever dared do before. He armed the serfs. The campaign against the invaders lasted for years, and after a fairly large battle that he seemed to lose, Ayachin fled southward, luring the Eosian armies into the Astel marshes in the south of the kingdom. He’d made secret alliances with patriots in Edom, and there was a huge army lining the southern fringe of the marshes. Serfs who lived in the region guided Ayachin’s armies through the bogs and quicksand, but the Eosians tried to just bull their way through, and most of them drowned, pulled under by all that muck. The few who reached the far side were slaughtered by the combined forces of Ayachin and his Edomish allies.
‘He was a great national hero for a time, of course, but the nobles who had been outraged because he’d armed the serfs conspired against him, and he was eventually murdered.’
‘Why do these stories always have to end that way?’ Talen complained.
‘Our young friend here is a literary critic,’ Stragen said. ‘He wants his stories to all have happy endings.’
‘The ancient history is all well and good,’ Djukta growled, ‘but the point of all this is that Ayachin’s returned – or so the serfs say.’
‘It’s a part of the folk-lore of Astel,’ Akros said. ‘Serfs used to tell each other that someday a great crisis would arise, and that Ayachin would rise from the grave to lead them again.’
Stragen sighed. ‘Can’t anyone come up with a new story?’
> ‘What’s that?’ Djukta asked him.
‘Nothing, really. There’s a similar story making the rounds in Eosia. Why would this concern us if we decided to go into business around here?’
‘Part of that folk-lore Akros was telling you about is something that makes everybody’s blood run cold. The serfs believe that when Ayachin returns, he’s going to emancipate them. Now there’s a hot-head out there stirring them up. We don’t know his real name, but the serfs call him “Sabre”. He’s going around telling them that he’s actually seen Ayachin. The serfs are secretly gathering weapons – or making them. They sneak out into the forests at night to listen to this “Sabre” make speeches. You should probably know that they’re out there, since it might be dangerous if you happened upon them unexpectedly.’ Djukta scratched at his shaggy beard. ‘I don’t normally feel this way, but I wish the government would catch this Sabre fellow and hang him or something. He’s got the serfs all worked up about throwing off the oppressors, and he’s not too specific about which oppressors he means. He could be talking about the Tamuls, but many of his followers think he’s talking about the upper classes. Restless serfs are dangerous serfs. Nobody knows how many of them there really are, and if they begin to get wild ideas about equality and justice, God only knows where it might end.’
CHAPTER 10
‘There are just too many similarities for it to be a coincidence,’ Sparhawk was saying the following morning as they rode northeasterly along the Darsos road under a lowering sky. He and his companions had gathered around Ehlana’s carriage to discuss Djukta’s revelations. The air was close and muggy, and there was not a breath of air stirring.
‘I’d almost have to agree,’ Ambassador Oscagne replied. ‘There’s a certain pattern emerging here, if what you’ve told me about Lamorkand is at all accurate. Our empire is certainly not democratic, and I’d imagine that your western kingdoms are much the same; but we’re not really such hard masters – either of us. I think we’ve become the symbols of the social injustices implicit in every culture. I’m not saying that people don’t hate us. Everybody in the world loathes his government – no offence intended, your Majesty.’ He smiled at Ehlana.
‘I do what I can to keep my people from hating me too much, your Excellency,’ she replied. Ehlana wore a pale blue velvet travelling cloak, and Sparhawk felt that she looked particularly pretty this morning.
‘No one could possibly hate someone as lovely as you, your Majesty,’ Oscagne smiled. ‘The point though, is that the world seethes with discontent, and someone is playing on all those disparate resentments in an effort to bring down the established order – the empire here in Tamuli and the monarchies and the Church in Eosia. Somebody wants there to be a great deal of turmoil, and I don’t think he’s motivated by a hunger for social justice.’
‘We’d go a long way toward understanding the situation if we could pinpoint just exactly what he is after,’ Emban added.
‘Opportunity,’ Ulath suggested. ‘If everything’s all settled and the wealth and power have all been distributed, there’s nothing left for the people coming up the ladder. The only way they can get their share is to turn everything upside down and shake it a few times.’
‘That’s a brutal political theory, Sir Ulath,’ Oscagne said disapprovingly.
‘It’s a brutal world, your Excellency,’ Ulath shrugged.
‘I’d have to disagree,’ Bevier stubbornly asserted.
‘Go right ahead, my young friend,’ Ulath smiled. ‘I don’t mind all that much when people disagree with me.’
‘There is such a thing as genuine political progress. The people’s lot is much better now than it was five hundred years ago.’
‘Granted, but what’s it going to be like next year?’ Ulath leaned back in his saddle, his blue eyes speculative. ‘Ambitious people need followers, and the best way to get people to follow you is to promise them that you’re going to correct everything that’s wrong with the world. The promises are all very stirring, but only babies expect leaders to actually keep them.’
‘You’re a cynic, Ulath.’
‘I think that’s the word people use, yes.’
The weather grew increasingly threatening as the morning progressed. A thick bank of purplish cloud marched steadily in from the west, and there were flickers of lightning along the horizon. ‘It’s going to rain, isn’t it?’ Tynian asked Khalad.
Khalad looked pointedly toward the cloud-bank. ‘That’s a fairly safe bet, Sir Knight,’ the young man replied.
‘How long until we start to get wet?’
‘An hour or so – unless the wind picks up.’
‘What do you think, Sparhawk?’ Tynian asked. ‘Should we look for some kind of shelter?’
There was a far-off rumble of thunder from the west.
‘I think that answers that question,’ Sparhawk decided. ‘Men dressed in steel don’t have any business being out in a thunderstorm.’
‘Good point,’ Tynian agreed. He looked around. ‘The next question is where? I don’t see any woods around.’
‘We might have to set up the tents.’
‘That’s awfully tedious, Sparhawk.’
‘So’s being fried in your armour if you get struck by lightning.’
Kring came riding back toward the main column with a small, two-wheeled carriage following him. The man in the carriage was blond, plump and soft-looking. He wore clothing cut in a style which had gone out of fashion in the west forty years ago. ‘This is the landowner Kotyk,’ the Domi said to Sparhawk. ‘He calls himself a baron. He wanted to meet you.’
‘I am overwhelmed to meet the stalwarts of the Church, Sir Knights,’ the plump man gushed.
‘We are honoured, Baron Kotyk,’ Sparhawk replied, inclining his head politely.
‘My manor house is nearby,’ Kotyk rushed on, ‘and I do foresee unpleasant weather on the horizon. Might I offer my poor hospitality?’
‘As I’ve told you so many times in the past, Sparhawk,’ Bevier said mildly, ‘you have but to put your trust in God. He will provide.’
Kotyk looked puzzled.
‘A somewhat feeble attempt at humour, my Lord,’ Sparhawk explained. ‘My companions and I were just discussing our need for shelter. Your most generous offer solves a rather vexing problem for us.’ Sparhawk was not familiar with local customs, but the Baron’s ornate speech hinted at a somewhat stiff formality.
‘I note that you have ladies in your company,’ Kotyk observed, looking toward the carriage in which Ehlana rode. ‘Their comfort must be our first concern. We can become better acquainted once we are safely under my roof.’
‘We shall be guided by you, my Lord,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘I pray you, lead us whither you will, and I shall inform the ladies of this fortuitous encounter.’ If Kotyk wanted formal, Sparhawk would give him formal. He wheeled Faran and rode back along the column.
‘Who’s the fat fellow in the carriage, Sparhawk?’ Ehlana asked.
‘Speak not disparagingly of our host, light of my life.’
‘Aren’t you feeling well?’
‘The fat fellow has just offered us shelter from that thunderstorm snapping at our heels. Treat him with gratitude if not respect.’
‘What a nice man.’
‘It might not be a bad idea for us to sort of keep your identity to ourselves. We don’t know exactly what we’re walking into. Why don’t I just introduce you as an aristocrat of some kind, and –’
‘A Margravine, I think,’ she improvised. ‘Margravine Ehlana of Cardos.’
‘Why Cardos?’
‘It’s a nice district with mountains and a beautiful coastline. Absolutely perfect climate and industrious, law-abiding people.’
‘You’re not trying to sell it to him, Ehlana.’
‘But I need to know the pertinent details so that I can gush suitably.’
Sparhawk sighed. ‘All right, my Lady, practise gushing then, and come up with suitable stories for the others.’ He looke
d at Emban. ‘Are your morals flexible enough to stand a bit of falsehood, your Grace?’ he asked.
‘That depends on what you want me to lie about, Sparhawk.’
‘It won’t exactly be a lie, your Grace,’ Sparhawk smiled. ‘If we demote my wife, you’ll be the ranking member of our party. The presence of Ambassador Oscagne here suggests a high-level visit of some sort. I’ll just tell Baron Kotyk that you’re the Archprelate’s personal emissary to the Imperial court, and that the Knights are your escort instead of the Queen’s.’
‘That doesn’t stretch my conscience too far,’ Emban grinned. ‘Go ahead, Sparhawk. You lie, and I’ll swear to it. Say whatever you have to. That storm is coming this way very fast.’
‘Talen,’ Sparhawk said to the boy, who was riding beside the carriage, ‘sort of move up and down the column and let the knights know what we’re doing. A misplaced “your Majesty” or two could expose us all as frauds.’
‘Your husband shows some promise, Margravine Ehlana,’ Stragen noted. ‘Give me some time to train him a bit, and I’ll make an excellent swindler of him. His instincts are good, but his technique’s a little shaky.’
Baron Kotyk’s manor house was a palatial residence in a park-like setting, and there was a fair-sized village at the foot of the hill upon which it stood. There were a number of large out-buildings standing to the rear of the main house. ‘Fortunately, Sir Knights, I have ample room for even so large a party as yours,’ the baron told them. ‘The quarters for the bulk of your men may be a bit crude, though, I’m afraid. They’re dormitories for the harvest crews.’
‘We’re Church Knights, my Lord Kotyk,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘We’re accustomed to hardship.’
Kotyk sighed. ‘We have no such institution here in Astel,’ he mourned. ‘There are so many things lacking in our poor, backward country.’ They approached the manor house by a long, white-gravelled drive lined on both sides by lofty elms and halted at the foot of the broad stone stairs leading up to an arched front door. The baron climbed heavily down from his carriage and handed his reins to one of the bearded serfs who had rushed from the house to meet them. ‘I pray you, gentles all,’ he said, ‘stand not on ceremony. Let us enter ere the approaching storm descend upon us.’