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Chapter Two
THE EMBASSY
The other Punchkins in the little group were Constable Ferumbras, Mr. Graveldrop, Mr. Tolman Strutts and Mr. Pontifex ‘Ponty’ Greenbelt, the Steward of the Eastern Hundreds. Aldred put on his formal hat, which he had carefully brought with him, and addressed his answer to them in common. ‘Good afternoon, gentle Punchkins,’ he said. ‘At such a time the Queen’s Councillors should all be gathered together, should they not?’
‘Queen’s councillors?’ asked Hodgekin in surprise. ‘What is this nonsense?’
A look of mild severity came over Mr. Graveldrop’s face. ‘Tell him, Mr. Sherling,’ said Ferumbras, who also was wearing a belled hat.
‘Upon my father’s death,’ said Aldred, ‘I succeeded to the Wardenship. This title carries the Councillorship within its own office, as the legal saying is.’
‘Which means, son Hrothgar,’ said Ferumbras gravely, ‘that Mr. Sherling ranks higher than you, in this parley we’re going to be having with the Queen’s Men, if we do have it. So just you up and say sorry to him right away!’
Hodgekin gulped, swallowed his anger and held out a hand to Aldred. ‘Deepest regrets, Warden,’ he said.
Aldred took the hand and shook it, but there came into his mind the memory of some words of filthy insult that Hodgekin had never taken back nor said sorry for. Looking at him, Aldred believed that he too had been reminded of that old quarrel. ‘All right,’ Aldred said, although it wasn’t. ‘You were making a report, I think?’
Hodgekin continued: ‘Their advance party will be in Bigginton this evening. Megiluin will be here tomorrow. I don’t believe he particularly wants this parley. I reckon the best thing, he thinks, would be to attack us and slaughter us all at once. Anyway the herald said that Megiluin is commanded by Queen Gauriel to allow Ostendil to make representations to us on her account. So it would be Ostendil heading the embassy tomorrow.’
‘How and when would they come?’ asked Mr. Greenbelt.
‘Eleven o’clock. Their embassy is to be five strong, with a guard of ten. We’d be five or six sitting on the other side of the table, and our own guard twenty-five Megiluin won’t mind that, seeing as he’s not in the embassy at all. No weapons within thirty yards of the table. All the rest of our folk to keep behind the fence.’
‘They don’t seem to be afraid of putting their heads into a trap,’ said Aldred thoughtfully.
‘We Punchkins are noted for our keen sense of honour,’ retorted Hodgekin.
‘That’s as it should be,’ said Constable Ferumbras. ‘But what about us? Be you sure there’s naught of treachery as we should be guarding against?’
‘Well, what do you think, Warden?’ asked Hodgekin.
‘Ostendil is a noble lord,’ said Aldred, ‘one of the last of the old breed. We know how he behaved, both before and after the battle. I don’t think we’ve any trickery to fear, not within the time of the parleying. All the same...it seems to me that he’s being made use of. They know we know him and his reputation. He’s serving as their figurehead, but we don’t know what their vessel may contain. But there’ll be no harm in receiving this embassy.’
The others digested these thoughts. Then Hodgekin said:
‘And you, Mr. Brown? What do you think?’
The old Wizard, who had been standing outside the group all this while, as silent as a tree or a standing stone, raised his head and said placidly, ‘I will be a part of your side, if you wish.’
‘So we’re all of a mind?’ asked Ferumbras. ‘Mr. Graveldrop?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mr. Greenbelt?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you, Hodgekin? Right. Tell ’em they can come here an hour before noon tomorrow.’
The evening and the night-time passed without any disturbance. The next morning was fortunately bright and mild, with a soft breeze that carried away a few petals of the apple-blossom. The new table, sturdy and smooth-topped, was set in the midst of the green, and a young Punchkin sat on a stepladder, painting emblems on the targes that had been nailed to the trees. (Why this had not been done before fixing them up, Aldred never discovered.) One showed the Tree and the Eagle of Thandor in blue, silver and black: the other, equal in dignity, showed the Cabbage and Wheatsheaves of the Demesne, red and yellow on a green ground. The last preparations were finished shortly before the Thandorians arrived: four of the delegation, with only a couple of guards. They came cantering along the woody track, cheerful and unabashed, accompanied by a bounding dog; they led their horses into the orchard-green and the anxious Punchkins gave way all round them. Lord Melohtar was their leader. He was as charming as could possibly be. He soon put the Punchkins at their ease, although Aldred and Hodgekin were both rather startled when they recognised the black hound. Melohtar had a grave nod for the Wizard, but no words were exchanged between these two. Ferumbras ordered wine to be served, and for a few minutes the Men stood and chatted with the smaller folk like early guests at a party: the sunbeams, the apple-blossom and the green of springtime all contributing to the cheerful mood. More Punchkins came forward to meet the other members of the delegation, who were Erumardil, Captain Crabanir and Ar the High Priest in a black robe. A rusty smile played over his iron countenance, but he said little.
Yet when Aldred made his way (having modestly held back for the first few minutes) towards Melohtar, he was shocked at the change in the latter’s appearance. The handsome face had aged and the hair was streaked with grey. Aldred was given no chance to express concern, nor to make any inquiry; instead he found himself being effusively thanked, all over again, for the manuscript of Glimpses. ‘Since we got back to Ruminas I’ve re-read it with the greatest enjoyment and admiration. Many, many thanks, my friend.’
‘If it repays any of the debt I owe to Your Lordship –’
‘Oh, far beyond that! Far beyond that! It’s a notable piece of lore, a valuable addition to any library.’
‘Why, thank you, my lord,’ said Aldred. ‘But it’s not very accurate lore, is it? Somewhat disproved by events? If all we have heard is true?’
‘No matter! Let it stand as it is. But prepare yourself, when we’ve all emerged from this sad misunderstanding, to write a sequel!’
Aldred bowed. ‘Too much kindness, my lord. But what of Mr. Gumasson himself? Is he indeed alive and well?’
‘Oh yes, Swin’s fine. I’ll pass your greetings on to him.’
‘I’d like to meet him, if that’s possible. Is he with your army?’
‘I’m right here, as it happens,’ said a cheerful voice over Melohtar’s shoulder. Swin was one of the two guards. He had now taken his plumed helmet off, allowing his red hair to be seen fully, but even so Aldred might not have recognised him at once. He also was changed. He seemed broader, bigger, heavier, enlarged somehow, enhanced, made even larger than life. His eyes were blue, his hair flamed in the sunlight and his great arms and shoulders bulged beneath the sleeves of his tunic.
‘Swin!’
‘Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,’ said Swin, ‘but I see that it’s not our first meeting. Would you re-introduce us, Melohtar?’
Melohtar did so, a shade reluctantly, but just then the herald-trumpeter announced Ostendil’s arrival. ‘You must go back, Swin,’ said Melohtar. ‘No weapons near the table.’
‘Wait a moment.’ Swin bent down to the Punchkin who was staring at him so intensely. Aldred held out his right hand. A tremendously powerful handshake took place. ‘Well, you’re the first fellow I’ve met who can match my grip,’ said Swin, startled and amused.
‘Do they hurt?’
‘Come again?’
‘Do your scars hurt?’ demanded Aldred. ‘I can see the stitch-marks on your arms! Do they hurt?’
‘Later, my friends, if you please!’ Melohtar took the arm of the astonished Swin and led him away. Lord Ostendil had just arrived and was dismounting from his tall grey horse.
Aldred hastened to join the introductions. When each member of the two sides had been made known to the other side, the two delegations took their places at the table. The Men were all sombrely attired, with the exception of Captain Crabanir in his dress uniform, and the Punchkins were all wearing the formal dress of the Demesne; so the sobriety of the occasion was enlivened by a faint jingling of hat-bells. The Men sat on chairs (borrowed from Bigginton), the Punchkins on long-legged chairs or stools. Thus they faced each other more or less on a level. Of the Men, the order from the Punchkins’ left-to-right was: Melohtar (with Sedro beneath his chair), Crabanir, Ostendil, Erum and Ar. Opposite them, in the same order, sat Mr. Brown, then Hodgekin, then Ferumbras opposite Ostendil, then Aldred, then the Mayor and the Steward: eleven persons in all.
Lord Ostendil, having been invited by Ferumbras to open the parley, rose to his feet and spoke thus:
‘The King did not expect that outburst of anger from you, the people of his Demesne, which led to your driving his servants from Bigginton and defeating his forces under me; yet Thandor understands the reasons for it, and the Queen who now rules us has sent this embassy, with myself as chief herald, to protest against your violent measures and to show you that they were inimical to the common good. If you harbour anger against me as Her Majesty’s officer, you are angry with one who is in a position to see what ought to be done and to explain what he sees, at least as well as anyone else; one, also, who loves the Kingdom and the honour of the Kingdom, and who is fully sensible of the obligations that belong to the Kingdom. Of which none is greater, none more hallowed by ancient law, custom and memory, than the upholding of the freedom of your land. Six centuries have passed since the first Kedral published that Decree which you have graciously set aside today, by which the Demesne was made a free land under the protection of the Crown, forbidden to Men: and this was done even before he had founded Vinya-Ruminas itself. Small wonder, then, that the duty of protecting you has ever been the topmost gage of our Kingdom’s pride; great grief, by the same token, that Thandor and Punchkinland have now come to blows. It is not my purpose to upbraid you. I am here to convey to you a particular request from Her Majesty. Yet that must involve explaining to you the unwisdom of your actions. For your danger is greater than you know. Your plight is entwined with the fate of the Northern Realm, and that Realm is now in peril. The Decree of Kedral still stands, but you may find within half a year that it has vanished like a film of soap, leaving you defenceless against hordes of merciless foes.’
Calmly he paused, and briefly looked into the eyes of each of the Punchkins who faced him. His own grey eyes had a lightness to them; his livery was the grey of the City Guard, and his white hair gleamed in the sunlight. His face was clean-shaven, somewhat austere but as kingly as the faces of his ancestors; and the sweet white petals that drifted about him, slowly besprinkling the grass and the negotiating table while he continued his speech, were – were what? Aldred wondered. A token? A grace? A sign?
‘Yes, Thandor is in peril, the Queen herself in jeopardy; and why? These are the causes. We are short of food. This you know all too well. We have outlasted the winter, and shall outlast the summer; but if you continue to withhold the tribute, that will be the end. Her Majesty acknowledges that the tributes were as high as could be yielded, and that the farmers of this land need themselves to be properly fed if they are to work the land to best advantage. Yet even the tribute at its highest will now be inadequate to save the Queen’s subjects from starvation. Many of these are poor dispossessed ones, Foravari of the far North, whose own lands have been withered by the Dragon. There are many, many thousands of them. They are moving southward into the plains. When there is no longer any sustenance to be gained there, what can they do but continue southward, mingled with their fellow-subjects of the cities, in search of sustenance and plunder? They outnumber the Queen’s armies. She is unable to keep them back, and even if able, would be unwilling to declare war on these her own unfortunate subjects who, by no fault of their own, have become starving migrants. Then there is a third cause, a third twist of the knife that fate has plunged into our backs. Fëaruk the White, our great Dragon, has left his home in the North. This means the loss, to the Dwarf-artificers and smiths of Lhygost, of his powerful flame, by which they produce their artefacts. I have schedules of figures, documents prepared for me by the Queen’s stewards, of all these matters. Should you desire to be informed of how many mail-coats and crystal vases, or other things, the Dwarves produce in a year; and how much money each of them will fetch, when bought by the servants of the kings of the South; and of how much of that money comes back into the Queen’s exchequer; then you may study the scrolls. But all that you need to understand is that her revenue is about to be greatly reduced: by about two thirds. With no money to pay her troops, and no food to feed her subjects, how will she keep up her power?
‘She may continue with difficulty to rule a narrowed domain, centred on Aduchel and the plains of the upper Bleck. But this is to admit that large portions of the Realm will break away. There will be rule of local barons, rule of powerful chieftains and outlaws, warring against each other with abundance of death and misery. Consider this, you who represent your folk: in the last census of your land, which the King’s Reeve has always carried out with diligence, the Punchkins numbered forty-eight thousand. The subjects of the Queen are vastly more numerous. The Foravari number not forty thousands, not four hundred thousands, but upwards of eight hundred and fifty thousands. With the Queen’s other subjects, presumed to be in a disaffected state, who may also invade your land, the number is raised above two thousands of thousands. Against these eager hordes you will have no defence but your courage and your small bows. They will not respect the Decree. They will rush in; they will take your produce and your land; they will drive you away, or enslave you, or kill you.
‘Her Majesty, however, has taken counsel and hopes to avert these evils. And the remedy she proposes will require your help.
‘For this emergency has long been foreseen, and a part of the last King’s foresight was to explore the lands south of your own land, which he has legitimately reclaimed as the southern territories of old Athenor. This region has been found to be wide, fertile, rich and unpeopled. Behold, as my colleagues and fellow-ambassadors, the Priests of the Temple, have said – behold the Providence of Lord Dru at work on our behalf, and your salvation close at hand! Here, in our own neglected back garden, is room for the dispossessed, plentiful wild meat to support those who must break and till the soil, rock-blood to ease the Dragon’s thirst, and soon, as we hope, the wheatfields that will replenish our granaries. But time is short: time is desperately short. April is running out. In the Demesne, I doubt not, your soil is ploughed, your seed already sown. But we have everything still to do. We believe it can be done, for ‘needs must’, as you say, is a good taskmaster. Our colonists, with tents and wagons and ploughs, and our own last store of seed, are on the march behind this Embassy, or arriving in Bigginton as I speak. Every day is vital: Every day brings us closer to the autumn rains and the end of the year. So now I come to the request, the matter in which the Demesne is begged to help the Kingdom. Begged, not commanded: for the Queen will not command you in this.
‘Punchkins, she asks for your consent, your permission indeed, for the making of a good road through the Demesne, from North to South: so that people and freighted wagons may pass speedily from the southern regions to the capital City, and back again.
‘You will wish to know why this is deemed to be necessary. I have said, and I again repeat, that for us time is of the very essence. Our forces have come by the Wainroad from Ruminas, for that is the shortest way. Now if they do not pass through the Demesne, they must turn either left, eastward, where there is no road, and aim to pass through the forests on the edge of your Woody Hundred, and then through the foothills of the Nurn Mountains – or right, westward, where paths and roads are few, and stray even farther from the direct line. Either course, for a column of laden men and wagons, would add weeks to the journey and to the journeys of those who must come after us. Henceforth there must be frequent comings and goings of great wagons, bringing loads such as have been brought from the Demesne, from the southern regions of Daelum and Lowerath. This is not to deny that the Eastern and Western approaches may not also be opened up in due course. But meanwhile a road must be made through your land. It must be a broad thoroughfare with a hard surface. Such a work will take time to complete; how long, none can say, but we hope that it will be ready to carry supplies by September, not only of provisions, but also of rock-blood. It is Her Majesty’s bold plan to transport the barrels of rock-blood from the new wells that have been found, and the greater wells that are thought to exist beyond the Rediath Mountains, or ‘Neverglades’ as you say – it is her plan to transport supplies of this liquid all the way north to Lhygost, so that the Dragon may be persuaded to return to his proper place. This is a very great undertaking, yet your own share of the burden, gentle Punchkins, will be light. Her Majesty will not require your labour, having her own troops of surveyors and engineers. All that is asked of you is the ceding of a narrow band of territory.
‘This new Road, so far as it concerns you, is to run on, due south, from our station at Bigginton. It will in fact be a southward extension of the Wainroad that now exists.
‘It will run as straight as possible. Its planned course is marked on the two maps that will be shown to you as soon as I have finished speaking. You will note that the Road will generally avoid towns and larger villages, and all places which, so far as we are aware, are specially loved by your people.
‘It will be fifteen yards wide, that is, wide enough for three broad wagon-lanes: a northbound lane, a southbound lane and a passing-lane.
‘In addition to this, Her Majesty will require a belt fifty yards wide, along both sides of the Road, in which sightlines are fully open. The further edges of these two fifty-yard strips will be marked by fences, and the fences will be patrolled by soldiers of the Queen. The band of one hundred and fifteen yards’ width is to be regarded as a part of the Kingdom – ceded, I repeat, by the Demesne.
‘The Punchkins will not be allowed to travel on the Road.
‘Road-bridges and other crossing-points, as indicated in the map, will be provided at intervals of two to five miles. The Road will run for over half its length, as you will see, through the common land of the Demesne. Nevertheless, some landowners will lose a swathe of their property, and a small number of Punchkins will have to be evicted from their dwellings. Her Majesty regrets this necessity and pledges herself to provide full recompense for all losses.
‘This is what she wishes to build, and for this your permission is sought. You should not regard it as a punishment for your unprovoked attack on our tribute-station, but as a voluntary contribution of loyal subjects; though I must urge you also to consider Thandor’s present need, and to resume paying the accustomed tribute also. Yet the stewards declare that three-quarters of the former amount should suffice to see the Kingdom through the coming summer. Punchkins, this is my last word: consider well: is it not right for you to aid the Kingdom in its peril? Even if your own survival were not also at stake, should you continue to enjoy your privilege and protection without sharing some of the cost? Lord Surveyor, the maps, if you please.’
‘Here,’ said Melohtar, ‘is a map of the Demesne, showing the planned Road in relation to existing features of the landscape. And here, to place it within the wider setting, is a map of Punchkinland, with the new Road marked in red, and the surrounding lands.’
The Punchkins unrolled the exquisitely-drawn parchments.
‘What beautiful maps,’ said Aldred; and thought, with a touch of mistrust, of Mr. Yarnal’s map which they had puzzled over. The Wainroad had been left off that one altogether. ‘Who drew them?’ he asked.
‘They were produced by Her Majesty’s Department of Surveyors,’ said Lord Ostendil.
‘This map of the Demesne is splendid,’ said Ferumbras. ‘Roads and streams, all lovely and neat... How did you get it all so correct?’
‘Is Middleton as far from Bavorton as that, though?’ asked Mr. Graveldrop.
Melohtar sat with bowed head. The little that could be seen of his face was pale and lined, almost sunken. It was he, of course, who had drawn the maps, using the Orb with charts supplied by the Reeve. He answered without looking up. ‘The Road has to run down the middle, but the way between Middleton and Bavorton won’t be blocked off. Note the bridge and aqueduct.’
‘How much is a hundred and fifteen yards, anyway?’ said Mr. Greenbelt, looking at the larger map.
‘Half a furlong,’ said Hodgekin bitterly.
‘Half a furlong? Half a furlong wide? All down –?’
The older Punchkins were bemused. The sudden request, if request it truly was, had taken them by surprise.
‘Mr. Dyer,’ said Aldred, ‘although Lord Ostendil has laid stress on the urgency of this business, he ought not to expect us to decide so large a matter in a moment.’
‘That’s so,’ said Ferumbras, facing Ostendil sturdily. ‘As the Warden says, my lord, this is too big a thing. You won’t deny us a day to consider.’
‘No indeed,’ replied Ostendil. ‘I have a treaty, together with two copies, drawn up in readiness for signing by me and Her Majesty’s Councillors of the Demesne. The conditions, as I have told them to you, are all laid down there. You can take one and discuss it at leisure. Then tomorrow morning you can tell me your decision.’
They digested this. Then Hodgekin said, with pent-up aggressiveness:
‘And if the answer’s no?’
‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Hrothgar?’
‘Hodge,’ said Ferumbras with a warning frown.
‘No, father, listen! I’m not easy in my mind. I’d like to hear this great lord’s answer from his own mouth. If the answer’s no, if we don’t want this ruddy great road and we don’t feel like haggling over conditions and we don’t feel like signing, if we say to you no, fair and square: then you all just pick up your bags and go home again? I mean, really and truly, how much choice are we being offered?’
Lord Ostendil’s answer was cold and even. ‘Full choice,’ he said.
‘So that’ll be the end of it?’
‘Indeed not! I have tried to impress upon you what the further consequences are likely to be! I repeat, the end of it will be the ruin of our land, and of yours too. But for now, having done my errand for the Queen, I would simply return to her and report your answer.’
‘I believe you,’ said Hodgekin, ‘but what about your boss?’
‘Whom do you mean?’
‘Megiluin! What’s he going to do?’
‘I neither command nor am commanded by Lord Megiluin. But Captain Crabanir is here with us as his representative.’
All eyes turned to Crabanir. While Ostendil and Melohtar were bareheaded, and Ar and Erum wore their black clerical hats, Crabanir wore a golden helmet with gleaming jewels and a tall plume. The visor of the helmet cast a shadow over the upper part of his face, so that the Punchkins could hardly see his eyes; but the long arrogant nose and the long loose-lipped mouth were very expressive in their own way.
‘Captain Crabanir,’ said Hodgekin.
‘Your servant, sir,’ said Crabanir. His plume danced and swayed in a gust of wind, and the white petals ran along the table-top; the leaves of the trees were shaken, and the sunlight was riddled through them, and many little spots of light flew back and forth.
‘We’ve been watching the approach of your army,’ Hodgekin said. ‘It’s a great host, more than ten thousand strong, as I guess: enough, maybe, to make you feel that you could attack the Demesne and defeat us this time.’
‘Heaven forfend!’ exclaimed Crabanir piously. ‘Haven’t we learned our lesson? Since you’ve been watching us, Mr. Hrothgar, you should have seen that this isn’t an army of soldiers. These are the colonists, the poor Foro, journeying southward in the hope of a better life. You won’t have the heart to bar the way against them, now will you?’
‘There are companies of soldiers among them,’ said Ferumbras. ‘And a regiment of Dwarves too, if my eyes didn’t deceive me.’
‘Certainly. Two companies of the Arostiri, five of my father’s own men, and one of my lord Ostendil’s. No more than a hundred and fifty in, for example, the vanguard – less than three thousand in total. The settlers must be protected and kept in order. As for the Dwarves, they are the mute kind. They are our road-engineers. They won’t trouble you.’
‘Savage Dwarves in the Demesne!’ said Ferumbras. ‘The thin end of the wedge is being driven in thicker already!’
‘Nothing is being driven in,’ said Lord Ostendil. ‘The Captain has declared the names of the troops, and some of their kinds and tasks. He could say more; but the word of yea or nay still rests with you.’
‘Upon my word,’ said Ferumbras, ‘if it be any part of your Queen’s purpose to cow us, or to threaten us with an accomplished fact, she’s making a big mistake. The Demesne don’t parley under threat. Not now, not tomorrow, not six months hence, not ever. I shouldn’t wonder if the Councillors resolved that them there troops and colonists and all be sent back to your City, sent right back, before we even start thinking about this Road.’
Ostendil bowed his head in acknowledgement. But then a new voice broke into the discussion: not loud, but dry and penetrating. ‘That, gentle Punchkins, would be somewhat premature,’ said Ar the High Priest.
‘Oh yes, my lord Ar? And for why?’
Ar stood up and moved round to the short end of the oblong table. Standing there, leaning forward a little and resting clenched fists on its surface, he looked dark and ominous. There was a hush in the orchard, and the birds stopped singing.
‘The Temple of Ruminas has heard, with profound regret, that you folk of the Demesne have not welcomed the Gospel of Dru, though it was ordered to be proclaimed among you, and the mandate accepted by certain of your own number who visited us as emissaries last year. The Temple of Ruminas has heard that you have wilfully run counter to this mandate, towards wizardry, black rites of witchcraft, shape-changing and at last the overt sorcery by which you temporarily defeated the King’s forces. And so I have come, as a representative of the Temple, in order to call you to account.
‘Where is this Wizard in whom you have put your trust? Let him stand forth.’
He glared at Mr. Brown, who rose – obediently – and moved round to his own end of the table. He and Ar now confronted one another along its length. Hodgekin smiled; he linked his fingers behind his head, spread his elbows and leaned back comfortably, expecting to see an exciting magical duel, and confident that his own man would win. But Aldred was troubled, for the Wizard’s manner was reluctant, almost shy.
‘Here I am,’ he said. ‘Let us see the craft of your Temple.’
‘That is one of the mysteries,’ said Ar, his voice colder than ice, ‘of which it is not permitted to speak. But I have a word to say to you, so do you now be silent and attend, and do you little people attend also, that you may know the strength of this support in which you trust! Old Wizard, you have strayed hither, out of your proper time; your destiny has gone awry, for you clave not to your true purpose, and now you have none; but by Almighty Dru, and all the powers of the Gods, and all your fellow-immortals of Pelmar, you shall not be permitted to lead these children astray!’ He stood upright now and raised his voice with a new authority: ‘For a new Order has come to Midyard, and Dru has raised up new servants to do his will. It is we, the Orondili, who uphold his light against all the powers of darkness. And for that you have leagued yourself with those, O Baranithron, least of Wizards, foolish and lost –’ While saying this, with a slow glacial contempt that was horrible to hear, he was lifting up his right hand – ‘your staff is broken.’
There was a loud crack and a strange flurry of petals in the air. Baranithron’s staff, which he was grasping tightly, was seen to have split apart all down its length, though he retained both halves in his grasp. Aldred saw the body of the staff as two legs, with one foot still firmly planted on the ground, the other kicked up and away. The Wizard continued to grip the broken staff even more tightly, as if believing that his will could reunite the cloven wood. But all that happened was that blood began to drip through his fingers.
‘Now go!’
Baranithron looked down at the table-top, at the black brandmarks that still showed on one of the sides of packing-case: sanded, smoothed but not erased. His lips parted; he breathed deeply and draggingly, and he went a little red in the face. Then he turned, still holding the useless pieces, and walked away. He seemed to disappear among the small trees, or to dissolve into the crowd of onlookers, before reaching them.
‘Punchkins, take heed!’ Ar’s gaze raked along the row, and each of the five quailed in fear. ‘This is your last warning. You stand on the brink of eternal damnation. Mend your ways, and heed the Queen’s appeal! Turn back while there is still time!’
With that, the parley was suddenly over. It had taken considerably longer than is here reported, with some detailed discussion of the conditions to do with the Road, but now no-one could think of anything more to say. The Punchkins looked at the four Men who faced them. Erum’s round face was sad, Melohtar’s weary, gloomy and disgusted. Crabanir was grinning. But Ostendil had a rueful smile for the Punchkins, a look of true compassion. He handed over the rolled-up maps and the copy of the treaty. He shook hands with Ferumbras and went back to his horse.
More clouds came into the sky, and by nightfall a couple of heavy showers had stripped most of the blossom from the trees. The Councillors ate supper together, gathered round a fire of damp and smoking logs, chewing on their tough meat and their difficult plight. Hodgekin had gone off to try to find Baranithron, and neither had yet reappeared, but Tom and Aubrey joined the conference. What should they say to the Embassy tomorrow? Of the company Aldred was the only one who had any clear conviction. He believed that they should grant the Queen’s request to extend the road, and say yes also to resuming the tribute. He shook off that famous reticence of his; he began to argue forcefully; his hearers listened or made occasional objections. Punchkins being what they are, Aldred would soon have brought them round to his way of thinking, if Hodgekin had not stepped into the firelight.
‘Any stew left in the pot?’ he asked.
The others turned to him with perceptible relief. As they expected, he at once took a line contrary to Aldred’s: the Demesne must display no weakness in the face of such aggressive negotiators. An impassioned argument began. It circled, recapitulated, ramified, re-converged and went on till well past midnight. To simplify and summarise: Aldred said that everything Ostendil had said sounded true. If so, the Demesne must support the Kingdom or be overwhelmed in its collapse. Hodgekin said that that might be, but the demands Ostendil had made were unreasonable. It was unreasonable of him to expect the Punchkins to accept them. They could go on supporting the Kingdom, if they liked, without letting in a horde of foreign Big Folk and vicious Dwarves. Ostendil had not said all. Evidently there was more that might have been said, or else his sincerity had depended on a certain amount of ignorance. Aldred said that all that was true. Likely enough, some kind of shifty, shady evil was being kept in the background. Still, whatever hurt the Road might do to the Demesne, it would be better than what must be caused by a war between the Demesne and the Kingdom, a war which the Punchkins now had no chance at all of winning. He asked what had become of the Wizard. Hodgekin confessed that he had not been able to find him, but then shifted ground: Megiluin and his gang were in a hurry, and another thing was clear, that they really wanted the Punchkins’ co-operation; and of course they still wanted the tribute. The Demesne had some bargaining power. It could temporise again: the Punchkins could try to improve their own position, could spy on their enemy and maybe inform themselves more fully of his plans. Aldred said that having Megiluin as an enemy was just what he most desired to avoid. Yes, the Kingdom did want their co-operation, but Aldred reckoned that Megiluin was nonetheless prepared to forgo it. Aldred was sure that Megiluin would allow no temporising, but immediately do what he designed to do if the road-treaty were to be left unsigned. Hodgekin, beginning to lose his temper but restraining himself in the presence of his seniors, asked Aldred if he wanted the Demesne to be cut in half by this filthy Road. Aldred said no, of course he didn’t: it would cause havoc and heartache and be a very great evil; yet that evil would still be less than what would follow from the Road being built in despite of their refusal. It would be a wound, but the Demesne had been attacked and wounded before, and it had been healed before, and it might be healed again. What marvellous healing power might it be, sneered Hodgekin, that Aldred believed in so trustfully? That would be capable of rolling up a great Road like a carpet and mending all the damage it had done? At this point Aldred faltered. For he did believe in a miraculous healing power: the power of the true and resurrected King, whose healing touch he so vividly remembered, and whom he had met again that very day. Aldred believed that Swin would sooner or later come into his own, would renew his Kingdom as Kedral had done in the days of yore, and would in truth be able to heal the Demesne along with the other parts of his wounded Realm. But he could not say this. Not only would it sound ridiculous, completely mad, but he had also made a solemn vow to Swin with the other members of last year’s Embassy: not to reveal anything of Swin’s lineage. (The others had all kept this vow until their deaths, and Waltrot too. Consequently Hodgekin never learned the truth about Swin: never, from first to last, thought of him as important, nor attached much significance to his return.) This was the weak point in Aldred’s argument. Yet the facts, as well as they could be discerned, were on his side. If the Punchkins had not seen Baranithron humiliated and vanquished, no doubt Hodgekin’s counsels would have prevailed. As things were, bereft of the Wizard’s protection, the other Punchkins came to see the element of desperate wishful-thinking in what Hodgekin was saying. Finally, and not without grave misgivings, the Constable declared himself persuaded by Aldred, and the two other Councillors followed him. Hodgekin stared at Aldred with silent baffled fury.
But Hodgekin was not a Councillor, so his consent and signature were not necessary. Next morning the Constable, the Mayor, the Steward and Aldred as Warden signed the treaty. Ostendil added his own signature, with Ar and Megiluin himself as witnesses. And Aldred thought, as he still thinks, despite the events that followed, that it was the wisest thing for the Punchkins to do.
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