Attendants, priests and guards, soldiers and courtiers gathered round the King. They raised him in his chair, they slowly carried him out of the Temple and once outside they looked around for the royal coach, of which there was no sign. The horses had bolted from the dragon. But it transpired that Fëaruk had been aware of the special sanctity of the Temple. Although he had done great damage, his destruction of the dead Tree and his purloining of the eagle-statue looked like considered and meaningful gestures rather than acts of wanton malevolence; and he had refrained from taking life, indeed from intentionally harming any person within the building. Outside it he had been less scrupulous. The open space of the Precinct had not been nearly big enough to accommodate him; scores of houses had been demolished in his landing and hundreds of people killed or injured. Even worse, as he circled over the City before landing he had voided his bowels, so that an avalanche of poisonous shit had descended on the streets of the lower town, completely burying two whole streets in the Craftsmen’s Quarter and causing many more deaths. What an unfortunate, pitiable end for those victims!
Lord Ostendil now took on the stewardship of the City and the realm. As soon as the Temple was cleared, he ordered carts, ropes, bins, buckets, shovels and an army of labourers to deal with the excrement. What defeated the labourers – the Reader must forgive a brief, necessary glance at this subject-matter – was the nature of the excrement itself. Black, slimy, sticky, clingingly heavy and full of ferment, it could hardly approached without some severe disturbance such as fainting or vomiting. Whoever had the hardihood to thrust in a spade might see, as the blade turned, the winking and bursting of numerous black bubbles, and smell the waft of a putrescence that need not be further described. The mounds were hot, too, and at nightfall patches of blue flame were seen to flicker about them, to grow or dwindle or separate as they sluggishly crawled over the glistening surfaces.
But before nightfall Swin Gumasson had begun to lend a hand. His strength proved equal to the task, and his example encouraged a number of the hardier Foro to take their stand alongside him. Knee-deep or thigh-deep in the scalding foulness, stripped to the waist and careless of who might see his scars, he shovelled and shovelled for days, stooping now and then to extract some poignant relic – a piece of armour, as it might be, or a woman’s ornament, or a skull, or some other identifiably human remnant; and he talked with his fellow-labourers in the language of the Nibyth. They told him of the sacrifices, of the young men and maidens taken captive by Lord Hriveor’s bands and then whipped along the terrible road to Lhygost. They told him of Lord Hriveor’s fabled cruelties, and of the tribute that was delivered annually to his castle: a dozen of the fairest children that might be obtained from the tribe of his barony, and never a boy or girl taken beyond the age of fourteen. So that at the end of ten days, Swin’s sense of aimlessness, of having nothing better to do with his life, had been enlivened by anger and compassion.
For now, however, Aldred must leave him to this toil and return to the King’s entourage. As he tries to imagine the scene, the first image that presents itself is that of a glass drinking-vessel that stood on a table by the King’s bed. The glass is beautiful, many-faceted and glittering with tiny broken rainbows. It presents a contrast with the disgusting mess that the Reader has just been required to contemplate, but its purity is closely related to that same foulness: for this is Lhygost Crystal, made in kilns heated by the white-hot fire of the dragon, exquisitely blown and cut by the Dwarves of Kibilgathol, regularly exported to Turmal and eagerly sought after by the potentates of the far South: a good example of the trade which sustains Thandor’s prosperity.
The king, sitting up in the great curtained bed, reaches out a trembling hand.
His attendant pours water into the glass. Her face is composed, her beauty somewhat austere. She is Wencela, daughter of Bryd. King Oresgal tried several replacement concubines after dismissing her from his service, but found that none of them suited him so well as she; not being a vindictive man, he had her reinstated in the Royal Bedchamber – though not as Mistress of the Wardrobe. As he fumbles for the glass, his hand jerks; the glass drops, falls to the floor and shatters. And in doing so it suggests to Aldred that a shattered presentation, a series of fragmentary scenes, may be a good way to carry the story swiftly on through the complexities of royal policy, as now continued and modified by Gauriel.
For the succession has been agreed. Oresgal discussed it with her and with Melohtar on the day of their return. He has sounded out the Barons and announced in full Council: the crown will pass to his daughter.
It sits on a pedestal at one end of the rich bedchamber. And gathered all round, to witness the succession, are the principal folk of the City and the Realm: Gauriel the Princess-in-waiting, and Melohtar her Consort, and Lord Megiluin, and Lord Ostendil, and Lord Hriveor, and Lord Tirmo, and Lord Lefnui, and Atan-Hostakyermo the Second Highest Priest of the Temple, and Erumardil the chaplain of the Household, and many others.
The King stretches out his hand a second time. He beckons. The Princess comes to kneel beside the bed. He rests his hand on her bright hair, then points at the crown. Unable to speak, he gestures: the crown is to go on that head. Who shall bring it to her? Step forward Engwe the Lord Secretary, obsequious and self-important. He lifts the crown; he bears it to her; he places it on her head.
Gauriel rises, and Engwe is the first to kneel before her, and then all the others kneel. They gaze on her beauty: they admire her proud and queenly bearing. Well does the golden circlet become her!
Yet there is one – so it will be whispered, and the whispering will not be silenced until the end of her reign – who might presume to oppose the coronation, or at least to demand a more equal share of the power. This is the Prince Consort, who now kneels by himself at the other end of the chamber, hiding his face in his hands. ‘What about him?’ the doubters will whisper. ‘Why has he not insisted? Should he not be King, if she is to be Queen? Being of the blood-royal, does he not desire the kingship?’ And thus begins the attaint, the imputation of weakness, from which Melohtar will never again be wholly free.
Oresgal’s eyes roll upwards and inwards; his head slips to one side; his hand quivers and relaxes. All hold their breath. Then Wencela gently closes his eyelids. ‘Let us pray,’ says Atan in his sonorous voice. All bow their heads.
‘Dru Almighty, Dru most merciful, Dru exalted in majesty over all the sovereigns and thrones of Midyard, we commend into thy keeping the soul of Ardan Oresgal, just, gracious and well-beloved prince of this realm –’
The prayer continues too long; much too long. Some of those present begin to look around before it has ended, and maybe exchange a glance or two.
Melohtar seems to have retreated further into the shadows. Nobody can read the expression on his face.
Gauriel, still crowned, has knelt down again, close beside the bed. There are tears in her eyes. Wencela is also gazing steadfastly at the dead King, but her face is calm.
Baron Lefnui is looking at the King, and at Gauriel. Megiluin and Hriveor glance at him, and at the bed, and at one another. Their faces are impassive.
Erum, having lost all respect for the standard sacred rhetoric of his fellow-priests, allows his own attention to roam discreetly. He observes Canon Melda, who is there as Atan’s personal assistant. And he notices that Melda’s attention is concentrated on one person. On whom? Can it be the chambermaid, Wencela, that Melda is openly staring at? Why?
Engwe the Lord Secretary is one of the few who seems to keep his attention on the prayer; but his face is twitching, his mouth moving involuntarily.
At last the solemn words die away. Gauriel doffs the crown and entrusts it to Atan, who at once hands it to, of all people, Melda. So it will be Melda’s task to carry the crown to the Temple, where it will be reserved for use in the public coronation service. Melda hardly seems to be impressed by the honour, nor weighed down by the responsibility of this trust.
Oresgal’s funeral is held two days later. The Erumar is a scene of devastation, the sacred sward scorched earth, the Tree a lifeless stump; but the priests do what they can to restore a sense of solemnity. Luckily it is a fine day. The new sunbeams that brighten the Aisle of the Tombs in the Targali, and glance upon him while he lies in state, and illuminate the slab that is at last placed over him, are like a blessing – even a forgiveness.
There is a perceptible sense of relief, shared by almost everyone in the City, when the coronation of Queen Gauriel goes off with due pomp and ceremony, exactly as planned and without any kind of mishap. Receiving the crown, arrayed now in rich pure white, she repeats the words of Eangil’s Promise in a form that has never been heard before, with the beautiful old-Elvish words modulated into the feminine. To the sound of bells and trumpets she comes forth from the Temple, and the City breaks into music and cheering, and for a little while the clouds of gloom are pierced by rays of delight. The Queen mounts a white horse, and Melohtar rides beside her as her Consort, and amid the strewing of green branches and the scattering of blossom they return to the Palace.
Whatever his true feelings about having been thus cast in an inferior part, Lord Melohtar now works out, or, as one might say, invents for himself an admirable public face: a way of appearing, of presenting himself, that well befits his new function. He is now the mediator, the enabler, the chief bridge-builder between the Queen’s policy and those subjects whom her decisions will affect. One of her very first decisions is to dismiss the Wardrobe: the Palace staff, from the Lord Chamberlain downwards, whose work has been to look after the king’s private and personal needs. An element of petty jealousy may, alas, be discerned here. Even as a young Princess Gauriel always disapproved of her father’s paramours. Now, poor things, they are all turned out into the cold, or would be if Lord Melohtar did not take it upon himself to provide for them. He commands a separate suite of rooms for them in the Palace; he takes the Chamberlain into his own personal employ, and commissions him to enquire among the wealthy households of the City until he has found new situations for all the displaced servants.
The Queen and the Prince Consort return to the house of Ostendil. This time they do not sit down in the painted saloon, but mount the steps of the round tower and enter the observatory. From here, in times past, Ostendil’s sires were wont to gaze at the night skies; from here, at present, Ostendil surveys the whole extent of the realm, and even the lands beyond: for this is where the Orb of Vigilance is housed. A globe of grey and gleaming crystal, somewhat smoky and marbled, it sits in a shallow depression on top of a single block of basalt that is polished and smooth as a black mirror.
Following Ostendil’s instructions, Gauriel seats herself and looks into the Orb. Faint lights gleam below its translucent surface.
‘Can you see anything?’ he asks her.
‘I see hills – valleys – a road. Horsemen riding down the road. Oh, but it’s so heavy! It makes my head ache!’ She takes her eyes from the globe, puts her elbows on the flat surface and rests her brow in the palm of her hand. Presently she asks: ‘Melohtar, are you any good at this?’
Melohtar, though he seldom has occasion to say so, is a practised user of the Orb. He takes Gauriel’s place, the chair-seat warm from the royal bottom.
‘...The horsemen,’ he informs her, ‘are Lefnui with eight others. I recognise the devices on their shields. They are riding through the Hills of Aduchel and now coming to a meeting of ways. One road leads on to the East, to Thaliondas, Lefnui’s castle. The other runs South-east down to the bridge over the Nibble and so into Lowerath.’
‘That’s the way he should go,’ says the Queen. ‘I commanded him to return to Ninniachlo without delay.’
‘Yes,’ agrees Melohtar, not turning to her. ‘If he does go east it’s a bad sign. Ah. Good. They’re going southward towards the river.’
‘What about the dragon?’
‘Where shall I look?’
‘Try the oil-field.’
With effort, his gaze traverses the leagues until it comes to the familiar sight, small but clear, of the encampment of Ninniachlo. There is the stockade, there are the guard-towers, the bailey fence, the wooden derricks, the flare-towers and the new refining-towers, six in number; there is the scrubby grass, the withered vegetation and the sickly swamp-trees; and there are the distant mountains of Rediath, below a clear sky whose blueness fades into the greyness of the rock-crystal.
‘I can see men working. There’s Uldro – Lefnui’s chief engineer. It all looks peaceful enough. But the big vats have gone... No, here they are, scattered about. Some are broken. Fëaruk must have quaffed the lot.’
‘We need to know where he is.’
‘Of course, my Queen, but he must be searched for. Do you understand?’
Ostendil, who has been standing by in silence, now interposes with: ‘One of us can view the Orb for an hour every day. We’ll find the worm, Your Majesty, and also report to you everything that we see.’
Melohtar has let go of the images in the Orb. He now rises, a little unsteadily. Gauriel gives him a gracious smile.
‘I can see that the task is an arduous one for you also, my lord. But let there be an hour’s viewing every day, as your father advises. And my thanks to you both.’
The great bind that the Kingdom is in would appear, in the long term, to be quite insoluble; but there are also many smaller knots and tangles, and to these the Queen now applies herself with vigour. Known before her transformation as a profound student of the law, she now rapidly makes herself mistress of other departments of policy. Every afternoon a group of senior figures from this trade or that profession – the Aulendili, as it might be, or the priests, or the farmers of Bleck Plain, or the Dwarves, or the lawyers, or Melohtar’s surveyors – are summoned to the Council Chamber, where they must undergo a searching inquisition and give in every respect a detailed account of themselves. Among these sorts of people, respect for the Queen, not untinged with fear, rises day by day. Yet she soon becomes surprisingly popular. One of her immediate aims is to end the long waiting-time for petitioners. She now devotes four hours of every morning, six days a week, to the hearing of those who beseech justice. The workload of the scribes is enormously increased, the long queue becomes shorter and the usage of bribery and private influence withers away. Two or three times a week, moreover, she goes out into the town and the countryside and meets her subjects; she enters the homes of the poor and the unhappy migrants; she dispenses food and clothing with her own hands, and the people begin to worship her. But she does not neglect the Court. In the early evenings, and then during a banquet or a smaller dinner-party, she improves her friendships among the noble and powerful, tracing the intricate strivings and alliances of courtly ambition while always diffusing a vigilant but benign impartiality. And then no rest, but another three hours of study, or correspondence, or discussions with her most trusted advisers. At last, around midnight, she retires with little ceremony to enjoy seven or eight hours of healthy unbroken sleep.
To the farmers of the Belechel she has this to say: ‘We find, worthy sirs, that an acre of pasture can nourish four bullocks, which when slaughtered after two years will yield seven hundredweight of meat. Is that not so? Whereas that same acre, if ploughed for planting, may be expected to yield, in one year, a thousand bushels of wheat, or eight hundred bushels of beans, or fifteen hundredweight of cabbages. Therefore, since too many of our loyal subjects are hungry, it is inconvenient for us to allow the wasteful pasturage to continue. You must now turn four out of every five acres of your pastureland to arable.’
The farmers gape at her, half stunned.
‘But where do we find the seed?’ gasps one. ‘And the time to plough?’ objects another. ‘And the labour|?’
‘Lord Melohtar and Master Quendil will answer these and all the other questions you may have. Good day, gentlemen.’
The whole Palace has been on a vegetarian diet since the first day of her reign. The Queen’s constant glowing health and increasing beauty seem to offer some vindication of this austere principle. And on another occasion she gives a rare hint of her personal experience, the suffering which now underlies her feeling for caged, hunted and slaughtered beasts.
‘The story of our misfortune, our transformation and our rescue, call it what you will, is pretty well known to all of you. We assure you that it remains vivid in our own memory. And it has left us with an abhorrence, stronger than before, of that base cruelty with which men use animals, whom Dru has commanded us to treat with justice and compassion. Know, therefore, that from this day it is enacted that the caging of animals as pets or for exhibition, whether birds, rabbits or bears, is forbidden throughout our dominions. Hunting, cock-fighting, bear-baiting and all other cruel sports are banned from this City and its environs. The Royal Chase in the woods of Aduchel is abolished, and the Royal Woods are now closed. Those of you who still desire to torture live animals must now range farther afield.’
‘But what about us, Your Majesty?’ say the Huntsmen of the Royal Chase, pale with shock. ‘How shall we live?’
‘You must find some other employment,’ snaps the Queen.
Yet above all else Gauriel is mindful of the jeopardy of her Kingdom and the combination of deadly threats that faces her. As if a huge, free-ranging dragon is not enough to cope with, Fëaruk’s departure from Lhygost has caused a sudden slackening of the local industry and thus a heavy blow to trade. Then there is the separate probability of famine. By tightening its belt, the Kingdom has survived the winter; but the revolt of the Demesne means that the City will soon begin to have more severe hardship. On top of all these pressing difficulties, her throne is insecure. As Lord Ostendil gravely explains:
‘Before Your Majesty’s unfortunate change, the King your father had intended that he who is the present royal Consort should succeed to the crown. But Melohtar’s position was weakened by that change. My son is not a very ambitious man. His kindliness and moderation now come in admirably as instrumental to Your Majesty’s policies, but these qualities did not suffice, a year ago, to sustain him as the heir-apparent. On whom, then, did your father cast his eye? Has Your Majesty considered?’
The young woman briefly considers. ‘On Megiluin?’ she guesses.
‘No. My lord Megiluin would have been the strongest contender, and he is now the greatest of the internal threats to Your Majesty’s throne. However, he happens to be an arrogant fool. I don’t doubt that in the present parlous state of the realm he would, as King, bring about its total ruin.’
‘Then whom, my lord? On you?’
‘No again,’ says Ostendil without a smile. ‘Not on me. On Lord Lefnui.’
‘Lefnui? Then why did he send him away?’
‘Precisely in order to strengthen the base of his power. We may guess that your royal father, expecting to live another five or ten years, had allowed Lefnui that margin in which to establish himself in the Lowerath. He would also have been in control of the new sources of rock-blood, and therefore enjoying – presumptively – the goodwill, or at least the backing, of Fëaruk.’
‘But Lefnui is faithful to me?’
‘Yes, sufficiently. That is not Your Majesty’s present concern. During your absence it must have occurred to Megiluin – or, I should say, to Hriveor first of all, for he rides on Megiluin’s shoulder and counsels him in all things – that a moment was approaching when a hard blow, struck without warning, might win him the crown. Whether he might or might not have been prepared to wait for the King’s natural death – well, that’s now an idle question. But his ambition has been kindled. We can be sure that Hriveor eggs him on. Hriveor’s own power has decayed since the worm ravaged his domain, and most of the folk have fled away. He needs a new pasture to feed in.’
‘Megiluin wants to be in command of the next invasion,’ remarks Gauriel.
‘He has told you so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let us think what that appointment might lead to. He dislikes and fears me. What’s more, my generalship has been discredited by my recent failure. Half the invading force will be his own men in any case. You have no plausible reason to deny him the command. Say that he’s able to bring the Punchkins to heel. I think that he will treat them with some respect, being in his own way a respecter of custom. He advances through the Demesne, he secures the roads and he compels the Punchkins to resume paying their tribute. What lies beyond? A rich empty country, so Melohtar tells us, one corner of which abuts on to the Belechel and the eastern border of his own territory.’
‘So you think he’ll probably be content with that?’
‘Who can say? His thoughts, I guess, tend toward the heart of the realm, towards this City. No, I do not think that he would be quite content. But his son, Crabanir, would like to carve out a new fiefdom for himself.’
There is a crease in the smooth white brow. ‘From a different point of view, then,’ she says, ‘it would be to our advantage if the Punchkins were to defeat him after all? It would damage his substance and his repute?’
‘I urge Your Majesty,’ says Ostendil severely, ‘to desist from such speculations. The commonweal of Thandor is a great matter. It is the cause, above all, for which I am offering you my own support and counsel. I should not be enamoured of a Queen who cared more for her throne than for the good of her people. For the Punchkins to defeat us a second time would mean ruin for us, and ultimately for them too. That is why I am prepared to lead an embassy, as we have discussed, and to parley with them in advance of the invasion. Now, going back to Megiluin, we can suppose that Your Majesty’s unexpected return and swift enthronement have caught Megiluin and Hriveor on the hop. Their plans now being in disarray, I counsel you to treat them graciously. Express confidence: offer Megiluin the command. He knows that you are resolute and that you have the City with you. While he’s undecided in his mind, make it easier for him to be loyal.’
Queen Gauriel broods again. ‘It seems very delicate,’ she says after a while: ‘a very uncertain plan. Would it not be simpler to put him to death?’
‘You mean: by treachery?’
The Queen looks up at him with a sharp glance. She says nothing. There is, just then, a quality of animal fierceness in her expression. Erumardil, the chaplain of the Royal Household, who has been listening in silence to all this talk, gives a pouting, frowning headshake.
Ostendil answers his own question: ‘No, Your Majesty, it would not! You are now Queen of a noble realm, and it therefore behoves you to stop acting like a wolf! Consider what would follow!’
‘Enlighten me!’
‘Megiluin has a hundred and fifty earls and knights, each with scores or hundreds of followers. If you kill him, all those will become, at a stroke, hostile to you. Many will cleave to his son, Crabanir. Others will seek the protection of Hriveor or Lefnui. The Arostiri would desert you. You might not be safe, even here in Ruminas. The likeliest end would be civil war between Hriveor and Lefnui, with your crown as a prize for the victor. No, Gauriel, a wise ruler will tolerate a measure of risk and uncertainty, unpleasant as these may be!’
A servant has entered. He bends and speaks in the Queen’s ear. ‘Very good,’ she says. ‘Let him come.’
The High Priest is announced. In his unassuming way he approaches her chair and makes his bow.
‘Welcome, Your Grace,’ says she. ‘Be seated, my lords. Well, we must needs decide what to do about the rebellious subjects of our Demesne, and so we shall be most grateful for the Temple’s advice and support.’
Atan gives a dry cough. He and Erum exchange a look, a silent statement of mutual forbearance.
He pauses.
‘We may add,’ Gauriel then says, nicely blending youthful modesty with regal firmness, ‘that the Bishop has spoken to us – merely a little, yet sufficiently – of what the Temple calls Priestcraft. Your Grace will recall that we ourself are not without some direct experience of that power. We understand that it is strong, and may avail us much; but also that it is secret, and that Your Grace will not like to be questioned about it. Say, therefore, as much or as little as you will.’
‘I consider,’ says Ar at last, ‘that Your Majesty’s army will have little to fear from the Punchkins, provided that Your Majesty’s general is supported by one who has skill of priestcraft, such as myself, or the Bishop here.’
‘That is excellent news,’ says Gauriel.
After another long pause the old priest continues: ‘I think it will be better, in fact, if we both go. I daresay you could spare your chaplain for a couple of months?’
‘I daresay I could,’ she answers: ‘And I daresay you two gentlemen would be able to compose your differences and act in close accord. Yes, Erum? Pray continue, my lord Ar.’
‘As for the wizardry of the Punchkins,’ says Ar, his eyes fixed in an intense rigid stare that avoids the eyes of the other three, ‘they have got it, to state the obvious, from a wizard. From the description my good colleague has given, and from the accounts of the battle – in particular, the spectral fox that appeared just before the attack – I think that this person may actually be identified. I’ve consulted colleagues who are in these matters more learned than myself. We all feel that it’s exceedingly unlikely, either that any Man or Elf or any other kind of being could have gained such conspicuous enhanced power, or that the Gods, acting as agents and vassals of Lord Dru Himself, should have unexpectedly aroused a second generation of wizards. There were six of ’em, as all the authorities are agreed: they came in the Second Age of Midyard, and their purpose was to help in the fight against Evil. The Punchkins’ wizard is Baranithron, the sixth of the order.
‘Knowing his name will be in itself a considerable help to us: the wizards don’t like hearing their true names used. Beyond that, we can sketch an outline of the nature of his power. Skill of shape-changing and concealment; charming of wild beasts. He took some part in the earlier struggles against Sorgrim, but he fades from view before the end of the last Age. Indeed, given the achievements of Staffal, this Baranithron seems oddly superfluous. My deputy, Atan, reasons from this that by the designs of the Gods, Baranithron was appointed to the Present, rather than the Second Age, and that he has been corrupted to work against Dru, just as Morithron the first wizard was corrupted and became a vassal of Sorgrim. I will hazard no opinion of my own, except to admit the possibility of further lengthy concealment, preservation, supernatural pickling, if you like, of himself or others. This is certainly one of his powers. I can’t say from what cause, nor by what means he outlived his intended sojourn and assignment: nor will I deny that he may pop up again, at some point in the future, and start to cause more trouble.’
‘But for now, my lord Ar, you are confident?’ asks Ostendil.
‘I am. This fellow has survived or strayed out of his own proper time. Even in his own time, it’s clear that he was the last and least powerful of the Six. This is confirmed by the testimony of our Bishop here, who very wisely, under the pretence of play, essayed a trial of his strength, and of our General, whose undeserved defeat was brought about by fears of darkness and a surprise conjuring trick. Is that not so, my lord?’
‘I’m not likely to deny it,’ answers Ostendil drily.
‘It is so. Still, conjuring is a sort of magic after all, and Your Majesty’s general will need some better means to counter it. Priestcraft, what you may think of as the godly wizardry of the Erumar, will supply that lack. This matter is something revealed only to a few: as Your Majesty has acknowledged, it is not a matter for open speech at any time. But when two or three who have the Craft are gathered together, then Dru hears their requests, and they can perform mighty acts in His name.’
There is a conviction in the gravelly voice, a calm fervour that does indeed carry full assurance.
‘That is very satisfactory,’ says the Queen. ‘Many, many thanks, Lord Ar. May this be the sign of a renewal of full accord between us. Well, the command shall be given to Lord Megiluin and these two reverends shall accompany him as supporters. And may we hope, Erum, and you my lord Ar, that you will be ready to provide wise counsel, should he require it of you, on other matters also? As regarding, for example, his own course and the loyalty he owes his Queen?’
Ar nods understandingly. ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ says Erum.
‘Most of the troops are mustered,’ says Gauriel, ‘and we certainly haven’t the wherewithal to keep them here. Are the engineers on their way?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ says Ostendil. ‘Melohtar has sighted them.’
‘Then we will announce in full Council tomorrow morning that the army will march, God willing, in five days’ time.’
Erum is left with a vague puzzled feeling about these engineers, whom he has not heard of before.
And so back to Swin, left out of all the exciting preparations, and increasingly aware, now the shit-shovelling is all finished and done with, of his own isolation and lack of purpose. Melohtar is being kept very busy by Gauriel, as is everyone else, but he takes an hour one evening to have a drink with his friend.
‘She wants me to ride with the army, does she?’
‘Oh, don’t deceive yourself, old chap. I think she’d rather you were drowned in Aduchel. But I’m going, and I want you, because we all need you.’
‘I haven’t had a word of thanks from her,’ complains Swin.
‘I know. It’s a shame and a disgrace. The whole City is in your debt. I’ll find a moment to remind her about it.’
‘Well. What shall I do now?’
‘Why not go back to the library, go on with your lessons? I’ll see if Quendil’s available.’
Passively Swin goes back to the hated books. He has become too depressed to think of doing anything else. He sits at the table where he sat before with Quendil, who unfortunately is too busy to teach him now; he sits with folded arms and stares stupidly at a chart of runes. Tinco parma qualma pesse... Outside the rain falls in frequent showers; it always seems to be raining while he sits there, and the light is dull, and the clerks and librarians shuffle about the room, their slow shoes whispering on the figured carpet. Never has he felt so abject, so lost, so powerless: weaker than a mouse, weak as a cut worm or a swatted fly. Gradually the dullness of his mind changes to darkness, to blackness and horrors, to the sense of a great void like a swirling funnel of water.
‘Mr. Gumasson? Excuse me.’
Swin’s head jerks up. He looks into the innocently smiling face of the chief librarian.
‘Pray forgive us for interrupting your studies,’ says Sadron Parmandur. ‘My brother is here, and he requests the favour of a few words with you.’
‘Certainly,’ says Swin, getting up. ‘Who is your brother?’
‘Have you not met him? He’s terribly important. Engwe the Lord Secretary.’
‘Hi,’ says Swin, getting up to shake hands. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Good evening,’ says Engwe. His speech, as always, is resonant, mellifluous and somewhat affected. ‘What a pleasure to meet you at last, Mr. Gumasson. I’m the bearer of an invitation from my wife. Would you like to come home, have dinner with us and meet the children?’
‘Thank you. Which children?’
‘Our children. Vornis’s children, to be more precise, but I look upon them as mine also. The twins. A little boy and a little girl... Did you not know?’
‘The children?’ says Swin, staring blankly.