| Chapter Two
THE COUNCIL OF ENGWE
Two days later Erum was summoned to the private office of Ar the High Priest. This was situated at the far end of the Numengali. Erum passed through the Kegyaina, walked round the Sward of the Tree and passed along the inner colonnade of the left-hand aisle. The scene was a busy one: above the high altar the image of the Eagle was being lowered into a cradle of ropes and scaffolding, in preparation for its long-awaited move to the top of the dome. Erum turned under a narrow arch and knocked on a dark door, which was soon opened by Ar himself. The inner chamber, triangular in plan, was of exemplary plainness. A strong black cabinet, a table, a few chairs and a hard couch were the only furniture. A yawning grate, at the point which was (architecturally considered) the extremity of the ground-plan of this the Ray of Blessing, was sprinkled with dust and soot.
‘Erum. Hi,’ said the High Priest, shaking Erum’s hand with a cool dry grip. ‘Glad you could spare the time. Have you met Lord Lefnui?’
‘Hi,’ said Erum correctly, nodding to the man who sat at the table. Lord Lefnui was tall, about fifty years old, with a lined face and twinkling blue eyes. His straw-coloured mop of hair was hardly touched with grey. Eccentrically, he was clean-shaven, and dressed in dun-coloured clothes, with sandals on his bare feet. His rank was evinced only by the bleached whiteness of his shirt and by the size of the ring on his right hand. ‘Hi there,’ he responded, smiling. ‘Congratulations on your great work.’
The High Priest was not accustomed to offer refreshments, nor to waste time in small-talk. Seating himself and Erum at the table, he plunged into business. ‘You, Canon-minister, have achieved an important task, justified the Temple’s trust in you and brought yourself to the notice of His Majesty’s Council. Now a need has arisen for a man of missionary ability, and so the Temple has received a formal request that you be seconded to Lord Lefnui’s department.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Erum: ‘what is this?’
‘Yes, apparently I’ve got a department now,’ said Lefnui. ‘Or I am a department. It comes to the same thing.’
‘Please enlighten the Canon-minister, my lord,’ said Ar.
‘The question of what to do with all the Foro people who have come down on us,’ said Lefnui, ‘as well as those who are still to come, has been urged by you, Canon Erumardil, and quite rightly, as one of great importance. Be assured that the Council has heard all your concerns, as reported by Lord Melohtar, and has given serious attention to your report. But the question is entwined with others: I mean the food-shortages, and what we’re going to do about the dragon, and the oil running out, and so on. And we have at last got some information about the lands to the South – I don’t mean Turmal and the deserts, but much nearer, on the southern side of the Demesne. There’s fertile land there, and no-one’s living on it, and best of all there are actually wells of rock-blood. Look.’
He unrolled a map.
‘You see the wide space between the south-east bend of the Bleck, and the out-curving of the sea to the East. The southern boundary is formed by the range of the Rediath Mountains and the forest of Gladram which lies between them and the Bleck. There’s lots of room there, and it’s actually part of this kingdom – that’s to say, the ancient united realm of Athenor, and that part of it, called Lowerath, which was ruled from old Amruminas.’
‘How did it ever come to be overlooked?’ asked Erum.
‘That I could not possibly tell you,’ answered Lefnui. ‘Perhaps, Lord Ar –?’
‘A shadow,’ said the High Priest gravely. His own face was in shadow as he spoke, and his voice was deep. ‘What you might call a shadow of inattention. Since Kedral refounded this part of the Kingdom, respect for our duty of guarding Punchkinland, while abstaining from ever entering it, has been held one of our highest virtues. What’s the second of the King’s coronation titles? Sustirmo a thamperiannath – Guardian of the Demesne and Protector of the Little Folk. The promise has always been kept; and since all our enemies and dangers have always come from the North, the North-east and the North-west, it is not surprising that the lands further south should have passed, as it were, out of our ken.’ He paused for thought. His dark eyes were unusually remote, absorbed in speculation. ‘That may not be so obvious,’ he said. ‘It may in fact be quite surprising to you both. We might take a little more time to consider this matter.’ Erum and Lefnui waited respectfully. ‘The Demesne,’ Ar went on, ‘that is, the guardianship of the Demesne, has always been central in our minds, an integral part of our identity. What does Thandor mean but “land of the shield”? We are the shield that has always protected the Punchkins against the the savage tribes, not to speak of wicked goblins and brutal trolls. But shields and bulwarks cast shadows also. And shields in the mind cast shadows in the mind. Forever facing vigilantly outward, we have neglected the hinterland of our defence.’
‘Very good, Your Grace,’ said Lefnui cheerfully. ‘Now the region called Ninniachlo lies at the south-east corner of Lowerath, or Daelum. This is where the rock-oil has been found. Our man tells us that there is probably much more to the south of the Rediath, but that region has hardly been explored at all. In three weeks’ time a strong band of surveyors and soldiers will set off to Daelum, escorting a host of the men of the Foro – such as are willing to go. And tomorrow the invitation will be proclaimed to them.’
‘By me?’ said Erum.
‘By you,’ returned Ar. ‘It is a good opportunity for them, though an unpropitious time of the year. And they trust you.’
‘They may,’ said Erum, ‘but I would hate to think of persuading them to migrate to some inhospitable region, about which neither they nor I know anything at all. For instance, they have heard of monsters in the far South.’
‘The offer – though indeed it is a command as much as an offer, for they must go: there won’t be room for them here – the offer is made in good faith,’ replied Lefnui, somewhat forcefully. ‘His Majesty is deeply interested in their survival and their future prosperity. All these matters will be made clear to you this afternoon.’
‘Where?’
‘At the Palace. At an extraordinary meeting of the King’s Council. But there’s still more for you to consider – the seconding my lord Ar spoke of. I should say at this point that Daelum will become a new barony, and it’s I to whom the King has entrusted its rule. But there will need to be a local bishop as well as a local baron. And the host that marches will need a priest to go with them, both to cater to their spiritual needs and to defend them against the enchantments of elves and what-not – which, I gather, have caused a certain amount of difficulty.’
‘Canon-minister: having attended the meeting at the Palace in two hours’ time, you will tomorrow, as a matter of obedience, convey to the Foravari what you have heard. You will present it as persuasively as possible. Thereafter, as a matter of personal election, you will decided whether to return to your duties as a priest-responsory in the Temple, or further to explore the work of mission, for which your talents so fit you, with the clear prospect of being consecrated as a bishop, and the rank and title of Bishop-elect. Dangers and trials you will face, but…’
‘But no more than I myself,’ said Lefnui with a smile. ‘And Lord Melohtar is also to be of the party.’
‘Is all clear to you?’ The High Priest’s voice and expression were glacially cold.
‘Pardon me, Lord Ar,’ said Erum meekly. ‘I perceive the greatness of this offer, and I hope that it may do as much credit to your judgement as to your generosity. But I do not fully understand the allegiance of a bishop. Am I to be under the Baron or under you in the Temple, as far away as it will be?’
The High Priest had a frosty smile for him and a very slight nod of the head. ‘That question is the best you could have asked and the only one that I will answer at this time. This is the answer. The Bishop-elect will at first work to the Baron’s requirements as a member of his retinue. When a church has been raised, and when there is a tithe-paying congregation, the Bishop will be self-sufficient, having his own household, but will continue to work to the Baron’s requirements. In all things, however, he will seek the greater glory of Dru, and will continue to be a perfectly obedient servant of the Temple. Should these duties threaten to come into conflict, he will parley between his masters and endeavour to reconcile them. Should conflict actually arise, he will carry out the wishes of the Temple. My Lord Lefnui?’
‘I confirm that this is the understanding,’ said Lefnui with the kindest of smiles.
‘Very good, my lord,’ said Erum, bowing his head.
‘Come to lunch with me now,’ said Lefnui, ‘and then we can go up to the Palace together.’
As Erum and Lefnui rose from the table, ‘Ah, my lord,’ said the High Priest with a brief lapse into humanity, ‘I had forgotten to ask: how is your lady getting on?’
‘I thank Your Grace,’ said Lefnui. ‘She’s in the bloom of health, and all is well.’
‘And her date?’
‘Three months or so.’
‘Blessing of Dru upon her, and upon yourself also.’
A crowd of ragged Foro children gathered round Erum and Lefnui as they left the temple precinct. Erum greeted them by name and scattered a handful of small coins among them. His mood then became dull and preoccupied, and he had to make considerable effort to attend to what Lefnui was saying.
‘Since the sad outcome of Princess Gauriel’s marriage to Lord Melohtar,’ said he, ‘His Majesty has had to end his hope of a union with one of the last remaining families of the former kingdom. And so he has been increasing and strengthening his Departments.’
‘Yes,’ said Erum vaguely, and then, ‘as a means of consolidating his power? But after all this time, is he not safe on the throne?’
‘His father, Asuldo of the Aulendili, whom some still think of as the Usurper, gained the Barons’ support by apportioning lands among them – lands that had belonged to the old lords. The Aulendili, of course, are only interested in their artefacts and the wealth they gain by trade.’
‘But Oresgal is also of the Aulendili.’
‘That is taken for granted. All this City belongs to their party, if not to the Guilds themselves, as does Lhygost in the North. But the Barons – I don’t include myself – have always despised the Aulendili, the more so as they have profited by them. And now that their estates have been wasted and depopulated by the dragon, they are even less well-disposed to those who are associated with him.’
‘The Aulendili,’ said Erum inadequately.
‘Believe me, Canon Erumardil, these are matters that concern you! There’s a plum within your grasp, a splendid career, but once you close your hand on it you will be seen to be of the King’s party, as I am. You may protest that your allegiance is to the Temple only, but that will make small difference.’
Erum had the feeling that he ought to ask some such question as, ‘difference to whom?’ or, ‘small difference, if what happens?’ Instead, and after wiping his mouth rather fussily, he replied, ‘Tell me about these Departments, my lord, if you would.’
Lord Lefnui sighed. ‘His Majesty’s design,’ he said, ‘is to strengthen his rule by drawing those of us who are friendlier, or less independent of him, into a tighter circle. Some, like Lord Ostendil and myself, are being co-opted as high officers, or as he calls us, “officials” of his administration. We have clerks and secretaries to write for us; they also watch us, acting as his spies. The task of my Department, as he calls it, will be to resettle the displaced Foro in the new province of Daelum, so that they can farm the lands and send supplies to us here. Also I have to pacify the region, in order that the rock-oil may be obtained and casked and sent up to the North. As a sop to my pride, the province is called a barony. But I shall not be allowed to wield such powers over my subjects as Megiluin and Hriveor do over theirs.’
‘And your feelings about that appear to be somewhat mixed,’ said Erum. The comment was like a modest silver coin, the last in his pocket, the most he could contribute; only insignificant bronze remained. It was a shame. He was receiving a favour, being treated handsomely, and no doubt much would depend on the quality of the mutual understanding that might be established between him and this powerful lord; but he had nothing more to offer. The two of them were sitting in the Mentielvo, the best tavern in the City, and having a good lunch; but all of Erum’s present surroundings, the clean napkins, the face and speech of Lefnui, and the splendid view of the Erumar, framed by trees in full autumnal splendour – all these were far less real to him than the eyes and the voice of the High Priest, and the horrible violation that had happened.
Lord Ar knew about it. Not his words, not the tone of the conversation, but his look of cold complicity – a profound, almost intimate quality of understanding in those dark eyes, that grey unsmiling face – had conveyed a message that was not to be questioned nor denied. Lord Ar knew: Lord Ar also knew that he, Erum, was going to accept the appointment. The free choice or ‘election’ had been offered only for form’s sake. Lord Ar knew that Erum would do whatever his superiors wished. The position of accompanying priest, and then as missionary bishop, would be difficult and uncomfortable in itself, and would additionally place him – so Lefnui’s hints seemed to imply – in some danger, should power change hands in the City. The King’s health was known to be poor. But Erum would accept. Whether he was to end up in the belly of some ravenous monster, or stretched out on some altar of witchcraft, or beheaded at home on the traitors’ block, Erum would accept, accept, ah, accept…
Had there been some spell, some quality of magical dominion in the assault he had suffered, in the very rape itself? The sign chalked on the door, the taste of the wine he had drunk, the prayer he had heard Atan say: these all looked like elements of some ritual. Had his arrival been prepared for, somehow expected, even though his foray into the quarter had been made on an unpredictable impulse? Again: it was well known among the junior clergy that some of their seniors practised a priestcraft that was magical in nature, with scope far beyond the simple charms and blessings. There had been some discussion of what kind of magic had caused the statue of the eagle to utter its famous prophecy. Erum had come to agree with the official line, that this was a miracle attributable to Dru alone. But something strange, powerful and irreversible had been done to him, and somehow the power of Dru was mixed up with this too. Why did he feel no anger, no, not the slightest resentment? Why had he treasured up the pain and the bleeding like a precious secret? What was the meaning of the shudders that still sometimes possessed him, the queasy pleasurable thrills as of some deeper and still-to-be-accomplished surrender? Why did the remembered sight and smell of Melda’s small white penis, that grew and swelled as it was thrust into Erum’s mouth, now affect him like a vision of innocence, a thing of dovelike beauty? Perhaps this was the designed preliminary of his appointment to a distant region, a magical enforcement of his obedience? Perhaps it was done to everyone as a standard initiation when they were promoted to canon’s rank? No, no, no. That could not possible be true. Perhaps, then, it was a new idea, perhaps originating in the brain of Melda. Perhaps he would find out the answers one day. Meanwhile it was difficult for him to give his mind to the conversation, and very regrettable that he was making so poor an impression on Lord Lefnui.
The meal ended in silence. Erum and Lefnui drove to the palace in Lefnui’s carriage. Having been admitted, they were led to the Council Chamber, a fine hall with a tiled floor and a carved hammerbeam roof. A few courtiers and officers were already standing or sitting round the long black table. Conspicuous among them was the brightly-bedecked figure of Engwe, the Lord Secretary of the Council. He was a short, large-headed man with a broad brown visage, around which ran a fringe of silver hair and beard. His voice, a strong oratorical bass, frequently overpowered the quiet talk of the other persons present. In addition to the royal coat-of-arms – the white tree on a blue background quartered with the gold and scarlet hammers of the Aulendili – he wore the velvet cloak and slashed breeches of the Palace Guard, of which he held the honorary rank of Colonel, and also the dark cap and hood that denoted a Fellow of the Schools of Dunbury. On top of all this he had a gold chain round his neck, from which hung several medallions and orders and a small silver whistle. Erum never found out the significance of this last object. Engwe was talking with Lord Ostendil and Melohtar his son, and a third man, a shaggy uncourtly figure who looked rather out-of-place. Ostendil was congratulating Engwe on something.
‘Why, thank you, my lord,’ Engwe replied unctuously. ‘Vornis and I have long hoped for this blessing. But are we not taught to contemplate such fulfilments as blessings from Lord Dru himself? What do you say, Your Reverence?’
‘Undoubtedly, my lord,’ said Erum. This was the only speech he was to make, both before and during the meeting.
‘Lord Lefnui, Canon-minister,’ said Engwe, ‘here is Master Hrem the Surveyor, newly returned from the South. The tidings he brings will furnish, I believe I may say, the main substance of our deliberations.’
Hrem and Lefnui nodded to one another, and Erum looked with interest of the Surveyor. His jaw was heavy and clean-shaven, like Lefnui’s. Despite the lack of a beard, his long hair – black interspersed with grey – hooked nose, deep-set eyes and bushy eyebrows combined to give him a wizardlike air. He wore drab-green and earth-coloured clothes, a broad belt with a great buckle, and a breast-badge in the form of a bronze dragon coiled about a silver blade. Maybe the incongruous look was nothing more than the natural appearance of one who had just returned from the domain of Elves and Monsters. ‘So you’re the Reverence what’s coming with us?’ Hrem’s speech was uncouth, his accent common. ‘How’s your skill at keeping off the Elves?’ He seemed to have read Erum’s last thought.
‘That is yet to be decided,’ said Lefnui tactfully, laying a hand on Erum’s arm. ‘But it will be our friend’s task to persuade settlers to go back with you, Elves or not.’
‘A fine bishop he’d make, though, if I’m any judge,’ said Engwe benignly. ‘Ah yes, Quendil?’
The palace scribe conferred with the Secretary on some point of procedure. More people came into the hall. Erum recognised Crabanir of the Palace Guard: his full-dress uniform was almost as exaggerated as Engwe’s garb but had at least some inner consistency. He was the youngest man present. He glanced round on entering but ignored everyone save Melohtar, to whom he half-raised his hand in a gesture of disdainful acknowledgement. Behind him came another group of lords, including the dishevelled figure of Tirmo the Wormwarden, Lord Megiluin, bulky and imposing in dark blue and gold, and Lord Hriveor slender and wraithlike at his side. When all had found places at the board, Engwe took up a position by the door, ready to play the part of a butler or major-domo.
‘The Council will stand,’ he announced, needing to raise his voice only slightly and glorying in his menial function, ‘for His Grace the Lord Rudhol Ar-Hostakyermo, High Priest of the Temple of Vinya-Ruminas!’
In came the High Priest. His spare figure, plainly clad and slightly stooped, might have struck a newcomer to this assembly as a little disappointing after the sonorous introduction: it might have, but it did not. He strolled to the lower end of the table, catching Erum’s attention with a flick of his eyes. Erum at once moved away from Lefnui and Melohtar, and took the place on Atan’s right. They were thus separated by two vacant seats, on both sides, from the rest of the company.
‘His most excellent Majesty, King Ardan Oresgal!’
The King also had a dislike of ostentation. It is possible that the garments he now wore were the same ones that the Punchkins had seen him in. He walked briskly to the ornate chair at the upper end of the table, followed by Engwe, and sat down without a word. At once, with a loud scaping of chairs, everyone sat down but Engwe.
‘This is the meeting,’ he said, ‘that will be known to history as the Council of Engwe; for it is I who by His Majesty’s command have summoned you hither and am now acting as his mouthpiece. In the parlous state of the realm, he has judged it necessary to summon you thus extraordinarily, my lords, so that the measures on which he has wisely resolved may be made known to you, the principals of his realm, considered, debated if need be, and then promulgated among the several baronies.’
Looking down the table, Erum studied the man in whose name the words were being said. He sat inert in his chair, his shoulders a little askew – hardly the picture of regal majesty. His mouth was pursed, his eyes black as beads in the face of a doll. His fingers drummed on the table-top. Engwe drew a long breath, seeming to inflate himself like a bullfrog, and continued:
‘Now, as was once famously said on another occasion of emergency, in order that all may understand what is the peril, the Tale of the Worm shall be told from the beginning even to this present, and things shall be spoken openly that have been hid from all but a few until this day.’
All listened, interested despite themselves, as Engwe narrated – really ably, with polished eloquence – the coming of the dragon, and the war waged against him by Kedral III, and so on – material that has already been presented to the Reader (see the Araquenta). ‘And now,’ Engwe concluded, ‘let Master Hrem of the Surveyors take up the tale.’
In a dull voice Hrem told of the first exploration of Southern Athenor. Two years ago, leading a band of ten explorers, he had penetrated the land south-east of the Demesne and successfully reached the marshes of Ninniachlo. There they had found clear traces of oil. In obedience to his orders, Hrem had at once returned to make his report to the City, leaving six men under his second-in-command, one Halken, to continue to prospect and to explore. Hrem had then been sent back with a larger force of two hundred men, soldiers and drillers and coopers from Beraid Moreithel, with horses and waggons for the heavy equipment. This second force, arriving at the first camp, had found it deserted; and neither Halken nor any of the men left with him had ever been found. The signs showed that they had left the camp voluntarily, no doubt to explore further as they had been instructed to do. It was already clear that the oil-reserves of Ninniachlo were far less than the great wells of the North, now exhausted. Only a few score of thousands of barrelfuls, perhaps eighteen months’ supply for the dragon, would be yielded. Nevertheless operations were begun. ‘It was a priority for me, to find out what had happened to Halken,’ said Hrem, dropping his aitches. ‘I sent strong bands into the mountains to search for him. Results were negative, but one group was able to find a way across to the other side, and down into the plain. They reported significant deposits of rock-oil. There’s the crusty foam on the streams, and the varnish on the rocks, and traces of the varnish lumps in the soil.’ Erum had begun to feel a peculiar boredom, a sense of distance or unreality. Presently he realised that it was a response to some definite quality of unreality in what Hrem was saying; and that the other hearers were losing interest in the same way. Breathings, scrapings of chairs and small fidgety noises sounded loud in the silence that was growing round the speaker’s words. Hrem concluded with an account of the second, more detailed surveying of the Ninniachlo. He ended abruptly and sat down.
The unctuous voice of Engwe slid into the silence. ‘My lords and gentlemen, before I announce to you the details of His Majesty’s further policy, are there any questions that you wish to ask?’
Now it was quite clear that a partial account was being presented, with deliberate falseness, as if it were a complete account. Most of those present, however, had experience of the ways of the Court. If the King required them to pretend that they were fully enlightened and satisfied, they would do so. Nevertheless the silence was broken by a harsh voice from the middle of the table: Megiluin’s.
‘I’m not happy with this tale,’ he said, ‘and I’ve questions to ask. Why, when Master Hrem left with his two hundred men, that was a year and a half ago, did no messages ever come back, so that we were left thinking that he’d come to grief? Second. Why did Master Hrem finally come back alone, as I’ve heard he did, half-starved and with his clothes in rags? Third. What’s the truth behind the rumours of Elves and Witches in that part of the world? Did you meet any, Hrem, or didn’t you?’
‘Elves and Witches,’ said Engwe with courteous poise. ‘Is that what we heard you say, my lord?’
‘You heard me! Elves and Witches!’
Engwe smiled, then made a graceful half-term towards his royal master. The King made no movement. ‘Well,’ said Engwe, ‘let me put the question to the board.’
There were several seconds of even more intense silence, strongly tinged with embarrassment. The sunbeams from the windows had moved to such an angle that Erum could now see the dust-motes that danced and drifted within them. The discussion that followed, on the subject of Elves and Witches, had a similarly light, remote and almost fantastical nature. In one sense these magical beings had little to do with the challenge that Megiluin had presented, and that Engwe had countered in such a way as to make it a challenge with which the whole Council had to reckon. They all knew about Berma the Witch; hard-headed, cold-blooded men as they were, they were aware of the possibility of Elves existing and having unknown powers. They knew of the King’s great anger towards Berma: they knew that any who uttered her name in his presence would be banished from Court. They were all aware that Thandor would have to reclaim Daelum and annex the land beyond. Yet it might well encounter difficulties in doing so, important real difficulties that were at present unmentionable, undiscussable. In mentioning them, Megiluin had set up a line of force and opposition between himself and Oresgal. And now everyone must take up a position, willy-nilly, on that line.
The High Priest was secure enough to make the first response. ‘Such heathenism,’ he said, ‘is a reproach to us and an offence against the law of Dru. His Majesty is entirely in the right. The settling of the land, with, as it may be, the conversion of the natives from witch-cults or elvish wickedness, has indeed been over-long in coming.’
‘But, forgive me, Lord Ar,’ said Hriveor, turning towards him a smile that was edged with black malice: ‘I have never understood whether the Erumar accepts such beliefs or not: and your own words lack clarity. Do Elves and Witches exist, or are they merely a heathen delusion?’
‘Your known impiety, my lord Hriveor,’ answered the Priest severely, ‘renders the question frivolous. The spiritual doctrine of Dru, upon which all our beliefs rest, is vouchsafed only to those who approach it with humility.’
‘Surely it comes down to deeds not words,’ said Tirmo the Wormwarden. ‘The dragon’s a creature of legend after all, but we’ve learned how to live with him, haven’t we? It’s not legends nor doctrines that concern this meeting, but policy. We can surely trust Lord Lefnui, as a practical man, to study the natives and decide on the best way to handle ’em when he gets there.’
‘And what does my lord Lefnui say to that?’ asked Megiluin with heavy scorn.
‘Lord Lefnui,’ answered that nobleman, ‘is both His Majesty’s subject and a loyal follower of Dru.’
And so on. When he described this Council scene to Aldred much later, Erum professed himself unable to remember any more of the words that passed; what he was vividly left with was a sense of the complex currents of allegiance. In describing these, he was obliged to make use of a number of similes. He said that the dance of implication and evasion was like the light dance of the motes in the sunbeams. But each mote was like a tiny clear mirror that flashed one way and then another as it turned in the light. And each tiny mirror was hinged or angled across its middle, and one side reflected a blue light, the other a brown. And as they sank slowly into a new alignment, they were like specks of iron dust arranging themselves around a loadstone. Yet the loadstone had not all the power, for the lines of its force were partly being determined by the play of the mirror-motes. And when they had all come to rest, the light they reflected was brown: it could be seen, without a vote having been taken, that the King had the backing of the Council. But the blue sparkles were more in number than before, and arranged more clearly: for Megiluin had advanced and consolidated himself in opposition.
‘The troops will be commanded by Lord Lefnui, with Lord Melohtar as his lieutenant,’ said Oresgal, speaking up clearly for the first time.
‘Now may I ask Your Majesty why that is?’ asked Megiluin. ‘Lord Lefnui will have many other concerns, won’t he? The surveyors and the engineers and the settlers will all answer to him: it’s this lieutenant who’ll be the real army commander. May I ask what quality Lord Melohtar has got that’s suitable? What experience of soldiering, or what skills, apart from being a scholar who can speak the dead elvish languages?’
The King whispered to Engwe, who asked: ‘Has my lord Megiluin an alternative candidate to propose?’
‘I certainly have,’ he answered. ‘I propose Captain Crabanir of the Guard, well known as a brave young man, a proper soldier with plenty of gumption in him.’
Melohtar raised his head with a look of displeasure. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘if this discussion is to continue, may Captain Crabanir and myself be excused for leaving the room?’
‘No need of that,’ said the pale-faced king. He pulled himself upright, leaned forward a little and addressed Megiluin in a low incisive tone: ‘Don’t presume on your rank, my lord. A scholar is not the same thing as a coward. My lord Lefnui will need a second-in-command who is possessed of tact and intelligence, besides courage.’
Crabanir flushed angrily at this slight, but his father – for some reason that Erum could not make out – was unperturbed. He nodded his head as if in agreement on some unimportant point. Beside him, Lord Hriveor smiled. The rest of the Council sat still, startled as if by the sudden flight of a spear, hurled horizontally down the table.
‘Now, my lord Lefnui,’ said Engwe, ‘I call upon you to inform the Council of His Majesty’s further policy.’
Lord Lefnui explained the plans, with which Erum was now familiar. Five hundred of the Aulendili, drillwrights and wainwrights and cooper-smiths, were to be sent with the protection of three hundred horse and seven hundred foot. With these would go the first wave of Foro settlers, at least five hundred, perhaps a thousand, depending on how many seized the opportunity to carve out new homesteads for themselves; they would not immediately be able to contribute much, but come spring they should have settled into their farms, and arrangements for the next wave of emigrants would by then have been made. Lefnui mentioned in passing that another work that must be undertaken next year was the extension of the Wainroad, southwards through the Demesne and into Lowerath. This would enormously help the toil of transport over the long leagues, whether of colonists marching southward or of grain-waggons and oil-conveyors rolling northward. But for the time being the expedition would have to respect the Decree of Kedral: this meant taking the old East Road towards Fairport, and turning south beyond the River Malog.
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